Where Wine Flows Like Water
by Watashi-wa-inori-tsuzukeru
Summary: Being the Dragonborn, the leader of the Thieves' Guild, and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood amount to a certain amount of stress. A drunken night that results in marriage to a Dremora even more so. Especially when you just can't kill seem to kill him.
1. Prologue

**Full summary: _Being the Dragonborn, the leader of the Thieves' Guild, and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood all amount to a certain amount of stress, no matter how much you enjoy debauchery and murder. So naturally, a few drunken nights would be a normal occurance. Unless of course, you happen to meet the Deadric Prince of Debauchery, who then invites you to a drinking game, after which you proceed to get married! To a daedra, specifically, the Dremora sworn to serve you. That might just cause a bit more stress than normal. Oh, but you're an assassin! Why not just take care of the problem? Oh, that's right. He can't die. Well, too bad for you._**

**I don't know, I wanted to. Apologies to my lovely fans waiting for my Warcraft stories. I'm awful, I know, but I had to. Consider it cleansing.**

**M for: future violence, gore, cursing, killing, drinking, nudity, sexual situations, the works. Only slightly AU concerning some elements, and spoilers for the Main Quest line, the Thieves' Guild story line, and the Dark Brotherhood story line. You've been warned. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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><p>I enjoyed pain. I enjoyed danger. I enjoyed the high of adrenaline caused by risk and rapture. I enjoyed power, and knowing I held it over someone. All these things and more I very much enjoyed. Immensely so. It was generally as simple as that.<p>

These things were perceived as wrong, or evil, or what have you. I had little problem with this. My people weren't well liked outside of Morrowind anyways. Why not play it up?

So I had no problem with involving myself with the dark, the demented, the damned, and the daring. But things change. Responsibilities forced upon you have a way of doing that.

Discovering you're the Dragonborn after being saved from the chopping block by a resurrected dragon bent on destroying the world, for example. That can change your perspective quite a bit. Though, I think I've done a fair job of staying consistent in my fun, beautifully bloody, underhanded, no-good lifestyle, all things considered.

Obviously, one wouldn't expect the gods to birth a murderer and a thief as the would-be savior of the entire damned world. But it was so. And, despite myself, I found myself going along with it: Fleeing to Riverwood, then Whiterun. Aiding that fool of a Jarl in defending his squabbling little hold from a _dragon. _Killing said dragon, absorbing its soul, and _Shouting_, in the dragon-tongue. Heading the call of those ancient, cynical old monks up in those blasted mountains. Learning what I am, who Alduin—Sithis take him—was, what his and my intertwined destinies were; and learning only I could stop him.

Again, one wouldn't expect a murderer and a thief—I truly cannot stress that enough—to follow through and start a journey to save the world. But what can I say? No world means no one to kill, no one to swindle. No more gold or jewels or blood or screams. No more of that rush. So, selfish? Undoubtedly. Perfectly. But was I going to let some had-been flying reptile take away what was _mine _to do with as I pleased? By Sithis _and _Nocturnal, _no!_

So that was the start of things. And it only got more complicated. But also much more amusing.

I joined the Dark Brotherhood. I joined the Thieves' Guild. I became the sort-of leaders of _both._

I turned into a vampire. My power increased—though sunlight became a bit of a chore, even though night had always been my domain, considering my line of work, and pleasure. For this reason, I also joined the Mages' Collage; they may be a den of weaklings and ninnies buried in dusty tomes and disgusting chemicals, but were they ever an opportune food source.

I helped—ugh—that stuck-up old Blade woman, and the paranoid old man too, and began to unlock and embrace my abilities and destiny as the Dragonborn.

Now, entertaining, exhilarating, and weighty as that all sounds, and is, I think any sane man would agree I'd be entitled to a night of drink every now and then.

Well, damn me for it. Because meeting "Sam Guevenne" was possibly the worst thing that has every happened to me. And accepting his challenge to a drinking contest damn well the stupidest.

Why, you ask? After all, I did get the meet Lord Sanguine after all was said and done, _and _was gifted with his staff, something extremely precious and useful.

Well because, you absolute fool! That awful night involved a wedding. And that damned merchant woman was right about it too. I _did_ have a "bride"—groom, as it were—and I _did_ get married. And no, it was not dear "Sammy".

My husband—_husband!_—is a daedra. The same one the Rose summons. Except that he tends to come out whenever he pleases. And he's an absolute twit! A Milk-drinker! A Snow-back! Troll bait! Nothing but a cocky, blasted bastard!

And worst of all, _I can't kill him. _I've tried. And succeeded. A hundred times now; it's my art! And yet he doesn't stay dead! He dies, and fades away, and then just poofs on back, saying things like "'That actually tickled'". The utter gall! He makes a mockery of my skills! I've killed thousands of people! I killed the emperor, for ancestor's sake! But I can't kill my blasted "husband"! The man is ruining me!

I hate him. I hate him in every way. I want him dead—so very badly—and I will _see_ him dead. And he hates me as well, but he's sworn by his masters to me, so there's not much he can do about it.

So let's really think about this: My name is Sereosa. I am a Dunmer. I am a vampire. I am the Listener of the Black Hand and the Night Mother, a master assassin, and child of Sithis. I am leader of the Thieves' Guild, and one of three Nightingales, servant of Nocturnal. I am the Dovahkin, the Dragonborn, savior of the world.

And, I am not only loathe the man I've married, but this "man" happens to be a Daedra, specifically a Dremora Markynaz, or so he says. He hates me. I hate him. I wish to kill him, but am unable to. He wishes me dead, but must protect me with his life.

Among many other things, one must wonder how in the world, with all this being said, I am beginning to care for said man.

Now, with all this going on, if not for what happened last time I'd gotten drunk, I think I'd be off somewhere at the bottom of a very deep barrel by now.


	2. Here There Be Dragons

**A/N: **First of all, I apologize for how long it took to update this. Honestly, I planned to just get the idea out there and then leave it the shelf to rot. But then, there's **you people. **Geez. The first few reviews, favs, and alerts were nice, and could be expected. But what kept throwing me was when I'd get alerts or reviews in April, May, and now even June, having posted this in Feb. I mean, CMON. How did you guys even **find **this? (No, honest, I want to know.) I decided to experiment and see for myself how many pages into the M section of Elder Scrolls I would have to go to find the story if browsing w/o any specifics, and it was FAR. So yea, kinda mind blown. But to the point, you people-have I mentioned I love you? Because I do-kept coming back, so here it is.

I would like to thank _Ozymandeos, AnonymousMe, Me _(plz, ppl), _ArcaneDragonElf, zeengy, Birdy, spike tashy, _and _eye of the divine _for their reviews, as well as everyone who added this story to their favorites and alerts despite the fact that it hadn't been updated in, like, ever. **I LOVE YOU ALL YOU LITTLE DARLING THINGS YOU. /shotd**

**A thousand thanks to my wonderful, awesome new beta _eye of the divine._ She got this story going again and she's a great help. Give her love~!**

**Disclaimer: Skyrim and its content, as well as the Elder Scrolls series, belong to Bethesda. I own nothing but Sereosa's smexy self.**

Enjoy, guys!

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><p>I suppose that coming to Skyrim had changed me.<p>

In many ways, at first, little seemed different on a whole: nothing about me changed so much as it did evolve into a greater or lesser aspect of my character...I was no longer simply a murderer: I was now a highly skilled assassin. I was no longer a petty criminal: I was now a master thief. I no longer just disliked the daytime: I was now, quite literally, physically adverse to it.

Characteristically, I remained a spiteful, cynical, sadistic, and veritably wild scoundrel. As time passed, I became bolder, more confident, admittedly salacious, and, according to my murderous and conniving peers, rather mad. But I also changed more...drastically. I grew to be—and I say this _grudgingly_—responsible, at least to some extent, as well as reasonable and maybe, just maybe, I had gained a few scraps of that honor all the sanctimonious bards and bitch-born Nords preached about.

Still, these changes didn't mean much to me. They had little significance in which the way I saw myself and in how I acted. Make no mistake, they were noticeable and had impact, but they were not great enough reason for any life-changing revolutions or wide-eyed epiphanies.

The thing that _was_ came later. So much later, when one considered everything I had seen and done in the time I spent in the icy, iron-willed and blooded wasteland known as Skyrim. What it was...no, _who_ it was...

They changed my life. I still don't know if it was for good or ill. And I am unsure I ever shall. Yet the truth of the matter remains: that man had enough of an influence on me that he changed who I am. I am not joyed by the fact. However...I believe I am grateful for it. As much as I can be.

It is difficult to explain how someone of my heart-a gladly cruel, unabashed, murderous deviant with no respect whatsoever for the craven, the feeble, or the fool-could come to feel affection, longing...even...something more than that. I do not know why I am even attempting to do so.

Perhaps it is what I owe him. If there is anything "decent" to be said about me, it is that I always pay my debts where they are owed.

This truly is frustrating. I have no idea how to explain comprehensively the events that cumulated into the effect he so had.

Well, those moon-eyed storytellers and their inane prattling sing of legends and woes, from beginning to end. Were I to take from their example...?

Oh, Sithis take me, so be it. I will start at the beginning. 'Tis as good a place as any other...

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><p>Consciousness came slowly, and with it came pain. And annoyance, rage, and a particularly vicious bout of bloodlust.<p>

But mostly, the bloody _pain. _Gods, the _ache. _My head felt as if a troll had split it with a hammer…

_Oh, wait. That happened. Damnation. _

Ah, but that aching. My head throbbed, my back and neck and arse throbbed, and the blasted shaking _needed to stop. _

Shaking…why shaking…? Such an awful rattling could only be associated with those forsaken carts…

A cart. Damn.

As more and more sensation returned to me, I became aware of the sound of hoof beats on stone, and creaking of wagon wheels, and the dammed uncomfortable press of cold wood against my body.

And worst of all, the infuriatingly familiar chaffing of ropes on my wrists.

_Damn it all._

Seething, I finally opened my eyes, only to reel back and clench them shut again at the spike of pain that so much pure white assaulting my vision brought on. Gods, was it _bright. _

My head rolling to the side, I cracked my eyelids once more and squinted at the too damned white world around me.

A cart, the driver—oh, would I enjoy slitting his throat—and his horse, a road lined with a forest of strange, needled trees—pines perhaps—that towered overhead, thinning to pinpricks that punctured the infinitely pale blue sky. As I looked, we passed a mountain, far off, a gray and navy behemoth capped with snow that stretched up, up, skimming the clouds. Swiveling my gaze around, I noted the ground around us was sloping, as if we were descending down from the hills, and that there were two more carts ahead of us on the road, people bound and loaded in the back…But most of all, the snow. Snow, _everywhere. _

_Snow. Gods, I hate snow. Especially in the daylight. _Why_ was I even in this blasted place…?_

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." A rumbling, male voice said, accented with heavy tones.

_Greetings, victim the second. Your tongue I will soon cut out._

Lifting my head, I glared murderously at the dirt-caked, fair-haired man across from me. Fair hair and eyes, eh? A Nord, then. It may be more befitting then to simply—

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

Oh. _Oh. _That was what had happened.

_Well, Nord. It seems you're the enemy of my enemy. Maybe you'll live yet…_

Glancing to my right at this thief the Nord had indicated, I noted two other filthy, frost-coated men. One, presumably another Nord, was gagged. The thief turned towards the Nord who'd been speaking.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He spat. He shifted a bit, and then turned to face me.

"You there. You and me—we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." I curled my lips back in a snarl.

"Don't dare compare yourself to me, fool. Your incompetence makes a mockery of the very word 'thief'." He made to reply, but the Nord cut him off.

"We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!" The Imperial Soldier driving the cart snapped, and only the unsteady rocking of the wagon kept me from lunging at him.

The thief was speaking again.

"And what's wrong with him, huh?" He asked, jerking his head at the gagged Nord I'd nearly forgotten about in his inconsequence.

"Watch your tongue." The Nord bit back, tone harsh. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric?" Thief repeated, seemingly shocked. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion!" He jerked back as he spoke, though the sad attempt put no more distance between him and this Ulfric. I nearly laughed at his cowardice, but his next words stole any humor.

"But if they've captured you…Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going." The Nord replied quietly. "But Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde_. The Nords' fantasies of afterlife. No, no, no, no. I am _not_ dying here!_

"No, this can't be happening." Thief's voice was panicked, and I looked ahead of us to see a village of sorts coming into view. "This isn't happening!" We all were silent for a moment after he stopped speaking, just staring, as the thatched roofs loomed closer, the rocky trail descending.

"Hey," The Nord called, his voice still that same _accepting _tone. He deserved death, the weakling. "What village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." He answered solemnly. I barked a laugh at that nonsense, but they only glanced at me.

"Rorikstead. I'm…I'm from Rorikstead." The horse thief replied, voice unsteady.

As the cart passed armed Imperials lining the path, one of the soldiers called ahead.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good. Let's get this over with." Tullius, presumably the severe man on the bridge we passed just under, said wearily. The fool thief began praying.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me."

"Be silent, you bitch-born fool. You could not save yourself: the pretty gods will not save you now." I hissed at him, infinitely sick of his blathering, and he withered, his face falling into his hands as he continued his rambling.

"Look at him." The Nord sneered, looking behind us. "General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." I had no love for those pretty, yellow-skinned, jinx-tongued snakes, but I was agitated enough as was that the comment still rankled.

"If your head wasn't about to roll, Nord," I said. "I'd kill you myself."

"Good. Better a battle than a headsman's axe." He returned, and I rolled my eyes at him. He was quiet for a moment, gaze flitting over the area.

"This is Helgen." He murmured. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilad is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…"

_I'd mix in Nightshade, myself. _

"Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

"You were as much a fool then as you are now if you thought you were ever _safe, _Nord."

"I suppose so." He sighed as a boy seated on the porch of his home spoke to his father, watching us as he would some shiny spectacle.

"Who're they daddy? Where are they going?"

_We're going to die, boy. And may you and every man here burn with us._

"You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

_And I want to watch you bleed. Hold you tongue, boy._

"Inside the house. _Now._"

And they were gone. _Small blessings._

The cart slowed, the driver yanking on the horse's reins, and I narrowed my eyes at the myriad of soldiers standing guard nearby.

"Why are we stopping?" The thief blurted nervously, and once more, I felt like laughing at him.

"Why do you think?" The Nord answered. "End of the line."

The cart rolled to a stop, and the Nord bowed his head briefly before looking around at the rest of us.

"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." I grinned at him maliciously.

"They can rot waiting for me." But he just shook his head and stood.

"No, wait! We're not rebels!" The thief gasped as he was lead off the cart. The Nord snorted disdainfully behind me.

"Face your death with some courage, thief."

"You've got to tell them!" He begged. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

A woman, the captain perhaps, stood before us, barking orders.

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."

The Nord sighed as he hopped down, landing next to me.

"The Empire loves their damned lists."

There was a long pause as papers were passed about, then an Imperial soldier began reading aloud.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm." The gagged Nord strode forward purposefully. I might have liked him, had he not been striding toward his own death.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!" The Nord called to him."

"Ralof of Riverwood." With a last glace, the Nord—Ralof—too walked forward.

"Lokir of Rorikstead." The horse thief, then.

"No, I'm not a rebel!" He cried. "You can't do this!" And then the fool ran. The captain barked more orders, and shortly, he was downed by an arrow in the back like the true craven he was.

_One did not run. One fought. Fool._

"You there. Step forward." The Imperial was speaking to me. Sneering at him, I approached, head held high and burning with spite.

"Who are you?" He questioned, and I just glared as he took in the gray skin, pointed ears, red-on-black eyes, and half-shaved head with a slowness I normally reserved to those with cracked skulls.

"Sereosa." I spat at him, knowing I would not be left be without giving name. Nodding as he scribbled down my name, he looked at me with pity I despised.

"Another refugee? Gods really have abandoned your people, Dark Elf." He faced his superior. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list…"

"Forget the list." The woman-captain snapped. "She goes to the block."

_Oh, you, dear girl, I will kill if it is that last thing I do. Peel your skin back layer by layer, cut off your fingers and toes one by one…_

"By your orders, Captain." The soldier conceded, and faced me, more of that damned pity on his features. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Morrowind."

_Never._

"Follow the captain prisoner."

Thoughts of getting my hands free and on a weapon raced through my mind as I followed the armored bitch, the general's speech passing, ignored, through my ears.

"…call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and…"

The Voice? What was the Voice? A power of somekind? Was that why this Ulfric was gagged? Perhaps if I could remove it, he would be able to use this power to destroy these Imperial bastards.

But if I was wrong, my opportunity would be wasted. No, there had to be something…

"…now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

In the distance, a strange sound echoed. A roar, a howl, perhaps. It resonated, and I jolted at the feeling. It was something so strange. It could not be blocked out like the rest, and it thrummed in my mind and bones. What was it? _What_?

"What was that?" The Imperial with the list asked no one.

"It's nothing. Carry on." Ordered Tullius, and another spike of bloody rage stabbed at me as the captain and soldiers moved into position, a Priestess of Arkay speaking grandly about our souls and blessings, as if she were not to watch idly as we died. I would kill her, too.

Thankfully, one of the other prisoners—I assumed a Stormcloak—cut her off and approached the block, as tired of their nonsense as I was. I allowed a grudging flare of admiration for the man as he continued to goad the Imperials, up until the moment his head rolled in a fount of blood. Amid outcries from both sides, Ralof murmured something about his fearless comrade, and I gave him a sharp, small nod in acknowledgement of the man. He, and all the others here, were fool; but they didn't allow the bitch-borns killing them any satisfaction.

The captain called for me next, and just as she did, the noise came again. Once more, I froze for a moment, _feeling _it.

It was _calling me. _The absurdity of such a notion was so immense, I fleetingly entertained the thought of bashing my head on the stone walls…but it was still true.

Though the soldiers had definitely heard, and some voiced their unease, the captain ushered things along. I stared hard at the woman, and a soldier made to push me forward, but I hissed at him, jerking away.

_Give them not satisfaction. Give them not but their own hearts. _

I walked forward with slow, deliberate steps, the Imperials watching me carefully. The damned woman's metal-booted heel ground into my back as she pushed me to my knees in front of the block, and I glanced briefly at the face of the dead, fearless man.

_It is only the brave, the foolish, and the truly good that die too soon. Much better to be the worst kind of villain. _

I laid my head against the red-stained wood, cherishing the smell of blood one more time, and stared defiantly past the headman. As he moved to raise his axe, the sound came again.

And there, against the mountaintops behind him, something flew by. My eyes widened.

_It couldn't be…_

And then everyone was screaming.

"What in Oblivion is _that?_" Tullius shouted, and the sounds—the _roaring_—came once more, louder, greater, fiercer.

And then, the beast landed on the watchtowers, a great, black monolith, scaled and fearsome, seeming to stare directly at me, its eyes burning pitch, haunting in their intelligent, malign intensity.

_"Dragon!" _A soldier shrieked, and as it opened its maw and let out a great shout of somekind, chaos erupted.

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><p>For the longest time, there was no sense, none at all, to a single damned thing that was happening. I was partially stunned, and little more than instinct threw me forward as I ran, vision blurred with spots of bright color, as flame, stone, and blood rained down around me. I was barely aware of Ralof shouting at me to move, to take this chance, to run.<p>

Instinct howled in me, and it was all I followed as I sprinted behind Ralof, up into a tower, that bastard Ulfric behind us. The dragon burst through the wall as we climbed, maw gaping as an inferno bloomed before us. And then it was gone, and I was running once more, jumping, falling, and landing with a spike of pain shocking up my legs.

And still I ran.

Then the man with the list was there, and the dragon landed nearby, and once more there was fire and primordial power. The man shouted at me, something about staying close if I wanted to live, and despite it all, in a moment of clarity, I laughed madly at the irony and swore he would die by my hand if I survived this.

But then I was running, and the beast swooped by with another roar, and once more survival overrode thought as strange words that I knew to be words spilled from the dragon's jaws.

_Run._

And then Ralof was there again, and after a blur of an argument between the Stormcloak and Imperial, after another pass from the dragon, after shattering seconds of turmoil, there was quiet…Mostly: the rumbling of a castle being torn apart and the Nord's heavy breaths as he yammered at me about legends were unwelcome but unpreventable accompaniment to my reeling thoughts and senses.

"What?" I snarled finally, as he continued to speak to me. His blue eyes were hard and his demeanor tense as he spoke, seeing I was actually listening.

"We have to get moving. Come here and let me see if I can get those bindings off."

Squashing down an indigent, spiteful flare at needing any help, I stalked forward a few steps until I was in front of him. He pulled a dagger he must have picked up somewhere from his belt and deftly cut the ropes. I flexed my hands as they fell away, reveling in the return of blood flow and relief of pressure, and Ralof grunted at me.

"May as well take Gunjar's gear." He cast a look at the corpse on the floor, clad in armor much like his. "He won't be needing it anymore…"

I knelt down and stripped the body of the cuirass, boots, and iron axe. I preferred a dagger for each hand, but…I stripped out of the prisoner's rags I'd been put into quickly and slipped on the equipment, uncaring of the Nord's presence. Once dressed, I flexed my empty hand distastefully, frustrated with having just one weapon.

Taking a bracing breath, I willed fire into the cage of the fingers of my left hand. It flared and pulsed and danced and coiled, heat radiating in my palm with but a fraction of the intensity it would have once unleashed. I wasn't fond of magic, but this would do for now…

Seeing I was sufficiently armed, Ralof began to look for a way out of the keep. The first iron-barred, cage-like door he tried was locked, and so he paced across the hall to the wooden gate. I came up behind him as he swore.

"Damn. No way to open this from our side." We stood for a few moments, thinking of other possible escapes—at least, I was—when I caught the sound of footsteps down the hall. In another moment, voices carried, and the steps grew louder.

"Someone's coming." I hissed at Ralof, and he cursed again.

"Imperials. Hide, quickly!" He whispered, ducking down, pressed up against the wall. I did the same, slipping into a crouch.

Just paces away now, the footsteps stopped and a woman's voice issued a command to get the gate open._ The captain._

I smiled, lips stretching wide, teeth flashing. Oh, _yes. _

In short order, the gate was opened, and the captain, in all her flashy armor, stepped through.

Seeing she hadn't noticed me yet, I lunged, swinging my axe at the back of her knee. Her metal greaves provided no protection to this part of her legs, and along with the clang of metal was the wet crunch of flesh and bone, and I let out a shrieking cackle, smile growing still.

Down on one knee, the captain drew her sword and slashed at me, but I danced back, twisting away from her. She yelled to her subordinate as she tried to stand on one leg, but it seemed Ralof was making short work of him, an axe in each hand.

Seeing the three were clustered quite close, I decided to take advantage. Drawing back further, I struck out my hand and loosened a jet of flame at the group. Ralof shouted and stumbled back, away from the blaze, but the injured Imperials—one collapsed on one leg, the other dazed with a cracked skull, or so it seemed—could do no such thing. They screamed—oh, what a _beautiful _sound—as they burned. I laughed again as I realized the captain would be cooking alive in that metal armor of hers.

As they smell of charred flesh filled the room and the two bodies crumpled to the stones, I ceased, closing my hand in a fist to halt the stream. Breathing heavily, and still giddy, I lowered my hands to my sides, gripping the axe sporadically.

Ralof—still alive, it seemed—was in front of me then, his cuirass smoking. He glared, and I merely raised an eyebrow at him, the adrenaline, the sheer joy brought about by killing too much for him to dampen.

"Watch where you throw that fire, elf, or I'll take off your head."

"You would already have a knife in your ribs, Nord." I chuckled, moving to search the nicely smoldering bodies.

Much of the metal armor the captain had been wearing was ruined, warped and misshapen from the heat; however, her dagger and sword, as well as a small metal key, had survived mostly unscathed. The soldier, who had borne leather, was in considerably better condition, and I took his hide bracers and helm for myself.

Standing, I held up the key for Ralof to see and jerked my chin towards the locked door. He sighed, then nodded, crossing the room.

"Let's just get out of here before that dragon brings the whole tower down on top of us."

We were through the door and down the dank hallway shortly, listening to the distant howls of the dragon and the unnerving crumble of stone and dust. We had been steadily moving for a fair while when we came around a bend only to be knocked to our feet as the ceiling collapsed a handful of feet in front of us. Great chunks of stone and mortar tumbled into the hallway, a cloud of dust rolling toward us. I choked on a polluted breath, covering my mouth and nose in the crook of my arm, but it did little, and my eyes began to water and sting with the bite of the dirt.

With Ralof swearing about persistent dragons ahead of me, we stumbled through the door that had just escaped the rock fall. As we entered the room, Ralof cursed again, yelling to me that there were Imperials.

There was no more time to think as another battle ensued. This time, there were three, we did not have the advantage of catching them unawares, and I was still blinking my vision clear. It took some time longer, and keeping in mind that I may actually _need _an ally of sorts, I did not use fire magic again. Instead, I danced around the room, striking out at the soldiers with axe and dagger.

When we had finished them, I once again searched the bodies, and I rubbed fiercely at me eyes with a mostly clean clothe tucked into one of their collars. Once I could see properly again, we searched the room. I took several skinned rabbits and plucked birds, along with some pinches of salt and herbs. My fellow escapee possessed enough wit in that frozen skull of his to hunt down a barrel filled with potions, which I also took. The handful of gold coins I pocketed was hardly much, but it made me happier all the same. Slightly better equipped, we moved on.

In the next room we entered, we encountered Imperial torturers fighting a few surviving Stormcloaks. With our arrival, they were felled quickly. As Ralof stopped to speak with his fellows and examine the tormented bodies of his former comrades, I looked about the room. Lined with cages along the walls and hanging from the ceiling, with pools of blood and torture instruments scattered about, I found the scene rather appealed to me. I took the time to pick the lock on some of the cages, scrounging up valuables, particularly a mage's robes, spellbook, and gold.

On a small table, I found a sack with lockpicks and more potions; but what caught my fleeting interest was a book, bound in black leather, with a strange silver insignia mounted on the cover: it was in the shape of a dragon.

Considering recent events, it may be one of the wiser things to be done to procure as much information on such beasts as possible. Checking to see that the trolls in the corner were still brooding over corpses, I cracked the cover and read the title page.

_"The Book of the Dragonborn_

_By_

_Prior Emelene Madrine_

_Order of Talos_

_Weynon Priory_

_Year 360 of the Third Era_

_Twenty-First of the Reign of_

_his Majesty Pelaguis IV"_

The Dragonborn? A book of _myths? _Well, wasn't that _helpful. _Frustration brewing, I turned the page.

_"Many people have heard the term "Dragonborn"—we are of course ruled by the "Dragonborn Emperors"—but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood. For those of us in the Order of Talos, this is a subject near and dear to our hearts, and in this book I will attempt to illuminate…"_

I snapped the book shut. _Rubbish. Nothing but sanctimonious rubbish._

Sneering, I reached up for the mounted candle hanging above the table on a beam, intent on burning the damned thing for kindling. But as the corner approached the open flames, I hesitated. My gut was clenching in a manner I recognized as an instinctive warning, the same I would feel when staring down a deadly drop as the ground fell away beneath my feet.

Groaning as the aching head that had never really gone away pulsed beneath my skull, I stowed the book violently away in my pilfered bag.

Down a few more dilapidated passages, we came into a large room with even more cages—and corpses, definitely—than the last. In the middle of the room stood some more Imperial soldiers, talking, and Ralof was quick to throw himself at them with a cry. The other Nords we'd picked up battled fiercely at his side. Grimacing at their lack of finesse, but still delighted in the opportunity to shed more blood, I joined in.

Ralof seemed glad to have some friends about him, and I snorted at his idiocy. In all likelihood, they, and perhaps even he himself, would not survive the next hour. Necessity outweighing pleasure however, I kept such comments to myself, even as they proved true later.

Finally having left the stone walls of the keep behind, we had just entered an open cave with a river twisting through it when we encountered yet _more_ Imperials. There were more of them than us, however, and they had two archers, so the fighting was grueling. Though I set the archers ablaze after lighting a slick of oil aflame, our recently acquired allies still lay dead along with the Imperials. Ralof muttered small prayers involving their Talos and Sovngarde before I pressed us on, threatening to continue without him.

The encounter with the bear was rather interesting, really, and I was pleased to have a bow. I struck the animal down with a few arrows in its hide and head, and took a moment to skin the beast for its pelt. Much like I had done to him, the Nord ushered me on impatiently, and it wasn't long before slogging through the river and over rocks paid off, and finally the damp, twisting tunnels showed an end, bright light streaming into the cave just ahead of us. Though the glare was harsh after so long in the dark, I quickened my pace, breaking into a run, eager for freedom. Ralof dashed beside me, and we burst onto the surface.

* * *

><p>We came out in the hills, squinting around us, surrounded by rocks and sloping, craggy, snow-covered land. Frosted trees spread in a forest on either side of a thin dirt path, and above us, the clouded sky was a pale blue. At least the sun was still up. Irritating, yes, but a good thing, no matter how much I disliked it.<p>

I hadn't walked more than a few steps when Ralof shouted at me to wait, scrambling to duck behind an outcropping of boulders. Overhead, the dragon flew by, is cries thrumming in my ears once more, carried on the air, and I took ducked down, waiting.

A moment…another more…and it was gone, a black speck fading fast into the distance of the mountains. Ralof stood, and I eased to my feet after another cautious look about.

"There he goes. Looks like he's gone for good this time." Shaking his head, he rolled his shoulders and began walking back onto the road. "No way to know if anyone else made it out alive. But this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We'd better clear out of here."

"I believe that is exactly what we've been doing these past hours." I commented scathingly as I walked next to him, rolling my eyes. Not amused, he grunted at me.

_Nords and their damned propriety. No humor, no wit, no brains. Just honor and muscle. _Which made one wonder how, by the gods, there were still any of them left.

"Getting out was one thing. Now comes getting away."

"And where do you suggest we _go?_" I asked tartly, waving a hand at the frozen wasteland this troll of a man called home. His brow furrowed.

"My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I'm sure she'd help you out."

"Yes, I'm sure a Nord would take kindly to _another _elf refugee."

"Neither of us is dead." The barest smile was on his lips, and I wondered what he could possibly find funny.

"Obviously."

"It's probably best if we split up." Ralof said, and picked up his pace as we came around a bend in the road. I watched him as the distance between us grew. Before he was too far, stopped and turned back to face me.

"Good luck. I wouldn't have made it without your help today, elf!" He shouted, and I grinned.

"Careful what you say, Nord. I may have to fix that yet!" I called after him. He just gave me a look, then spun about, and was gone.

Having wasted enough time already, I turned and began a brisk trot into the surrounding rocky terrain, keeping the road somewhat in sight. With all I'd been through today, it was unlikely I'd reach this Riverwood before nightfall, depending on how far off it was.

Resigning myself to the fact that I'd just have to see what came when it came, I pulled my short cloak tight around me, cursed the snow, the sun, the Imperials, and every other blasted fool in this gods-damned province, and kept running.

* * *

><p><em>Sereosa's not the nicest person in the world, in case you haven't picked up on that, haha. And so her adventures begin! What will happen when she gets to Riverwood? Something exciting (read: bloody) surely. Thank you all for reading, and I hope to see you next time! Reviews are welcome.<em>

_Also, as I want to have fun with this, and want you guys to have fun too, I'm taking requests for **way for her to kill her Dremora. **Seriously people, go wild. All suggestions welcome: the funny, the grisly, the gruesome, the creative, and the downright insane._


	3. Journey's Beginning

**A/N: **Here we go, everyone, chapter two! I hope you enjoy it.

I would like to thank _ian904, zeengy, and One-Legged Joe (dude, whoever you are, you've got to PM or something, because you're making a cameo in this story for that last one on the list. I'm giving you a hot-damn for effort. Honestly. Cue the appluase.) _for their reviews! They mean a lot to me! Also, thank you so much to everyone who's added this story to their favorties and alerts! This story has the most views and following of any other of my works, and it's all thanks to you wonderful people. **LOVE YOU ALL MMKAY.**

**Special thanks to my wonderful beta _eye of the divine. _You've been so patient and helpful my dear Luuly! Thank you! -hug-**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

><p>hope you enjoy it<p>

Feeling little obligation to reach the backwater, ramshackle town I imagined Riverwood would be with any urgency, I stopped to rest as soon as the sun fell below the horizon.

_That, and this headache is a bitch. _

I grinned widely as I plucked the iron daggers from the corpse of one of the bandits I'd stumbled across, a pale-skinned man covered in dirt with brackish hair and darkly ringed eyes, now glassy and wonderfully devoid. Not only would their camp do well for shelter—Gods take this land and its damned cold—but I also got a half-decent pair of knives. Though the ones I'd had before were also iron, these blades had a much finer, newer edge and the leather-wrapped hilts were in good condition.

_And more importantly, got to kill these shoddy idiots._

I scanned the newly stripped bodies, covered in slashes and cuts, while I chewed hungrily on some dried beef—or rabbit, I couldn't really tell—that had been laid out on a stump. Blood was such a pretty color, a perfect, mesmerizing red, purer than any other red, with the uniqueness that accompanied such specific conditions—namely maiming and murder—for viewing; and it certainly looked interesting as is froze right there on the bodies and furs, not quite crystallizing like water to ice, but not really clotting like blood usually would either. I amused myself for quite some time after I'd finished eating simply watching the slow trickle frost over.

Eventually, I stood with a pleased sigh and stretched, reaching back to rub at my aching back and neck. By the gods, I was sore everywhere. All that damned chaos…I lightly touched the swelled, raw wound on the back of my head, gritting my teeth at the fresh shocks of pain it caused, a new color to the pounding in my skull. It hurt. I was infinitely glad to finally have some quiet, away from all the screams and roars and madness.

Distractedly, I stared into the low, slowly dying flames of the fire the bandits had been gathered around minutes ago. I watched the flames dance, licks of brilliant orange and wreaths of gold in the dark night. In them, I could see similar flames that scorched the rooftops and poured from a dragons maw, could feel the heat and pain and dizziness and hear the roars of the dragon and the people's screams…

Roars…screams…had it really all happened?

_Perhaps those damned Imperials knocked something loose. Or maybe it was the dragon. Gods, was it really a dragon?_

I stumbled into one of the hide tents, thumping down with a heavy sigh. Thinking about the events of the day through the drumbeat pain behind my eyes was exhausting, seemingly more so than the actual events. It seemed impossible, incredible, illogical, but the fact remained…a dragon—_a dragon_—had swooped out of the gray-cast skies and laid waste to Helgen, saving me from the axe in the process.

Oh, and wasn't that a joyful thought. The gods-be-damned _headsman's axe. _I snarled quietly.

_How could you be so weak as to nearly let those fools slay you? Pathetic._

I punched the ground, furious, but the only results were a spike of pain lancing up my arm and a distinct increase in my level of frustration. Cursing, I pulled my arm close to my chest and gingerly lay down on the bedding of furs and pelts. I spared the briefest thought for the fire outside, but once I was finally resting my head, the exertion of the day seemed to crash over me. It was only moments more that I was conscience.

The last thing I was aware of was the echo of the dragon's roars in my ears, echoes of my memory, resounding quietly, calling, calling…

I slipped into the blessed blackness.

* * *

><p><em>Cold. It was so cold. So bitterly cold. The air itself was as ice, the ripping, tearing, bleeding wind slicing like frozen razors. The chill seeped through muscle and bone, and as it encroached further, to my heart and soul, the flesh behind it died, silently screaming; and though dead, it would not rot and fall away and leave me in relief, for it was frozen, as was I.<em>

_So, so bitterly cold._

_I could see nothing, no shapes or colors, but there was a faint, flinching ache, as if my eyes were closed to something terribly bright. I saw nothing, smelt nothing, heard nothing, and could feel nothing but the horrible cold and the biting wind. I could feel, but all my other senses were denied me, muted by the arctic frigidity. _

_And in that glacial silence came the voices. _

_"Kiir…Jul…Fahdon…Brinnah…Dovah…Drem Yol Lok brinnah…Zu'u zeymah…Dahmaan brinnah…dahmaan daar…Faal Al daal…Faal Al fundein…Vokun…Vol…Faal Al fen du fin lien…Hin dez…Dovahkiin…Hin dez los viik vokul…Dahmaan Dovahkiin…Dahmaan daar…Zind Voth Ahkrin…"_

_One voice with so many voices. Over and over again it—they—chanted, words uncomprehending, urging, _calling…_screaming…_

_In the bitter cold, their roaring echoed._

* * *

><p>I jerked awake with a gasp, and grabbed at my head as the abrupt motion sent a spike of pain through my skull. Even as I moved, my sore muscles shrieked in protest, a stinging rushing feeling burning up my whole left side while my right settled for a simple throb. I growled to myself.<p>

_Blood and fire…damn it all…arrgh…_

I waited a few seconds for the aching to subside, a litany of curses streaming through my thoughts and from my lips all the while. I got up slowly, feeling the pull on each muscle, and made my way into the damnably bright, shiny morning.

_Bright. Why does it always have to be so bright? Ugh. Mornings…_

I looked around, blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust my vision. The campfire the bandits had lit the day before their _oh-so-unfortunate_ deaths had sputtered out completely, blackened logs and ashes gone cold. Aside from rustling leaves, the wind itself, and birdcalls, it was quiet. Pale sunlight washed across the camp, pines casting long shadows on the ground. I looked to the east. The sun, fringed by a smear of clouds, was perhaps four hands into the sky, just peaking over the jagged edges of yet _more_ mountains.

I had the sneaking suspicion I would be seeing many more snow-capped mountains yet. The thought made me want to scream. Instead, I channeled some of my smoldering annoyance into stripping the camp of anything useful: animal hides, foodstuffs, leather strips, additional weapons and armor. I took the time to remove the leathery, fur-lined hides off of one of the slighter bandits, changing out of those damned Stormcloak colors. The bastards may have been better than the Imperial bitch-borns, but they were bastards still.

_Drag me into your petty arguments…I'll have all your heads…_

The thought of murder was cheering. Knowing their life was yours to control as you sink your blade into their flesh, feeling it slip away by your actions, seeing the light die in their eyes…the knowledge of being superior, the knowledge of being stronger, quicker, wittier, the knowledge of being the one who survived…being feared, respected, or even rewarded…_and most of all, the thrill…_

Yes, very cheering.

Much better equipped for a journey—a very short one, anyway—I left the camp and started navigating the rocky slopes, hills, and overhangs, searching for the road. It was less than an hour later that I stumbled out of the spiny brush and onto the worn dirt-and-stone-paved path.

With nothing more interesting to occupy myself with as I trekked, I began an idle study of my surroundings. Everything in Skyrim seemed to come in a few shades: green, brown, gray, blue, and white. The white and gray seemed to be predominant. At least I hadn't seen the fabled droves of snow and frozen oceans yet. Here at the border at least, the plant growth and wildlife were considerably plentiful: I heard trills of birdsong, saw rabbits and foxes darting about in the undergrowth in the corner of my eye, and even attempted to fell one with my bow; but I only managed to graze the beast's fluffed tail as it turned and plunged over a hillock.

The air was fresh and cold, and if frost had any smell, I decided this was it: a sharp, cool scent tinged by running water and bare gray rock. The wind carried hints of pine, flora, and the chill of snow, a cool—_cold_, blast it—zephyr that swirling ribbons of white on the nearby mountaintops and made a lazy, rustling cornucopia amidst the bushes and trees.

Boredom pending, I turned to the plant life. Several of the bushes and springs of growth lining the road had wildflowers, and I started collecting them in hopes of sale or use. Still, picking flowers and funguses can only be so entertaining for so few seconds, and eventually I just let my mind go, my conscience thought idling behind the movements of my arms and legs.

I came back to myself only when I came upon a bend in the road that ran along a wide, deep blue river, surface sparkling blindingly as it flowed by. Nestled against the bare hillside near the steep shore, three strange stones stood inside a smooth, cobbled circle overgrown with roots and surrounded by springs of lichen. As I approached, I noted the stones were all the same shape and size, and all had a decent-sized hole near their tips; furthermore, it appeared at least one of the stones was scratched with a carving or mural of some kind, thought I couldn't make anything out of it at this distance.

I paused just outside the circle, looking past the stones. The view was admittedly magnificent, all blue skies and a blue river with hazy mists ghosting over it, opalescent in the morning light, filling my ears with water's rushing tumble, the picture rimmed by rock and tree, with a green-scaled mountain in the background.

_Wonder if it's the last thing I'll ever see._

Curiosity easily won out over any caution. I stepped into the ring and quickly strode right up to the nearest stone: this one, on my right, also had a carving. It appeared to be of an armored figure with a ridiculously horned helmet, holding a sword and shield. A warrior, perhaps. I moved to the next in the little ring, the one closest to the cliff face: this depicted a bearded figure, arms thrown wide and billowing with robes, bearing a staff and scroll. This one I assumed was a mage or sage, and I chuckled lightly at the superfluous image. Moving to the last stone, I immediately assumed it must be a thief or bandit of sorts, if only to complete the triad: its carving showed a caped, masked man swooping down in a run, clutching a blade and purse. Though this one's ridiculous dressing was nearly as bad as the mage, I was more inclined to the scoundrel it actually seemed to represent.

_A Thief Stone, a Mage Stone, and a Warrior Stone. Maybe Ralof would know something about these? Damn the man for running off. _

I huffed and moved to retreat, but a nagging feeling stilled me. Vaguely similar to the roaring-calling of the dragon the night past, the stones tugged lightly on my mind, and I had the sense that it was an ancient touch.

_Old magicka, of that there is no doubt. _

The urge was most overwhelming, and though some small, rational part of my mind tried to beat me with the knowledge that this could very well be very bad magick, I reached out my hand and let my fingers graze over the surface of the Thief's Stone.

A slow, intimate pulse went up my fingertips, through my arms, filling my body and settling in my skull; and with it came a certainty, a knowledge I'd never known granted. _Those under the sign of the Thief will learn his skills all the quicker…_I got the feeling I was being demanded something…a decision, concession, acceptance…_Do you accept this sign…? _

Hardly aware of the movement itself, I nodded, thinking of agreement. As soon as I did so, the stone gave another pulse, this one energizing, and I stumbled back roughly. As I watched, a wraithlike, iridescent blue glow gathered, concentrating, in the hole near the top of the stone, and a thin beam of the same light ascended upwards towards the sky with a tinkling, high-pitched sound.

_Pretty…_I thought, blinking at the mystic glow, still reeling. _By the gods, what just happened?_

I shook my head hard, my neck cracking and my hair whipping, trying to shake the odd feeling free. It was a dazing thing, as though I'd just witnessed something I couldn't quite comprehend yet.

_Perhaps that's just what you did, moron._

Growling when all I got for my troubles was a bit of dizziness, I scrambled to my feet and bounded down the road, away from the damned circle of stones that had entrapped me so.

_How foolish. _

After some time the heavy feeling in my mind dissipated, and I welcomed the return of all my mental facilities as I came upon a crossroads. The path on the left followed the river, while the other climb slowly back into the heights of the hills. The high road was lined with half-buried logs, likely to function as rough steps; though this seemed like a clear marker of a path meant to be taken, the Nord had called this place of his Riverwood. It stood to reason the hamlet would be _on the river. _

_Moreover, civilization—no matter how dingy—requires a water source. These mountain-men would have to have less wit than a headless troll to build in the hills and not near a river. _

As much as I was inclined to go with the assumption that the damned Nords really were so idiotic, the fact remained that they weren't extinct yet.

_Must be doing something right. Somehow._

Decided, and feeling decidedly superior, I turned left and started running down the river road. Along the way, I continued collecting plants and flowers, and soon came into possession of some wolf pelts when a small pack attacked me. I killed them quickly with arrow and dagger, and marveled at how easy it seemed when it was done and I had skinned them.

I stopped at a spot the sloped gently into the river for a drink—the water was icy and tasted fresh, and I grinned for it, refreshed. I knelt there for a moment then, rinsing my hands and face and neck with the freezing water and staring at my reflection. All my features, though familiar, puzzled me; somehow, I had the distinct feeling something was different, but even as I spent long minutes scrutinizing my countenance, I could not place what. Shaking my head at my own absurdity, I got up and got moving again.

Further down the river, I saw a russet-brown dear picking its way along the shore on the other side. I briefly entertained the thought of hunting it, but I had very few of these iron-tipped arrows left, and even if I had killed it, crossing the river for the carcass could be treacherous in that current. With a shrug and another handful of red flowers, I moved on.

It was not much later that the wood-stone-and-thatch buildings of a town came into view around another bend in the road. The bleached-wood signpost not far from a covered stone guard's wall proclaimed the village before me to be Riverwood—among other places, Windhelm included—and behind me was Helgen. I paused there, leering maliciously at the little board hailing Helgen, thinking again of all that had happened.

_And you thought things would be dull in this wasteland._

Flicking a glance up at the sky to see the sun just dipping down from its noon-high precipice, I sighed quietly, sent a quick plea to _some _god to keep any annoyances at bay, and strolled under the archway of the rough wall and into Riverwood.

* * *

><p><em>I will kill you all. <em>

I thought viciously, grimacing in the orange light of the forge as I hammered away at an anvil. What had begun as a simple foray into this shabby workshop to snag some equipment and tools had not only been thwarted by the arrival of the smith, but also turned into a merry fucking lesson of menial labor as I found myself making a helmet and dagger for the damned bastard. The only thing keeping me from shoving his face into the super-heated coals was the promise of keeping these crafts and the avid presence of a filthy town guard.

_And filthy or no, greater numbers and arms aren't that simple to overcome. Not to mention the smith's axe…_

I was quickly learning that in Skyrim, every single damned person was armed and willing to bleed you like a stuck swine on a moment's notice. Every single woman and man carried a belt knife, a sword, an axe, and sometimes even a mace. For the most part, it seemed to be the knives.

Grunting, I drew the hammer back and brought it down again. My consolation in this damned work came in the form of knowing I was gaining knowledge—no matter how infuriatingly gotten—and imagining different faces beneath my hammer: the smith—Alvor, if I remembered correctly—Ralof, the Imperial captain I'd killed, Ulfric, Tullius. They were interchangeable, and each no more or less delightful than the last.

_And they've all got raccoon-eyes. Must be a Nord thing._

When I finally finished hammering out the helmet's shape, the soot-covered smith leaning against the wall directed me to touch it up with some leather on the workbench. I complied with a low growl, cursing the fact that neither Ralof nor the bitch of a sister he'd mentioned had been present at the mill when I'd gone to look—I was beginning to doubt Ralof was even here yet, the bastard. The plan had then turned to raiding the various homes and carts for additional things to sell at the little town trader's—which led to the smithy…that led to _this. _

_Damnation. Damn you all to the darkest void in Oblivion. Oh, how I'd enjoy your screams…_

The sun had sunken low in the sky by the time I barreled out of that damned workshop, carrying a new helmet and iron dagger, as well as the shield, ingots, and leather strips I'd snatched while the smith was talking with his vapid bitch of a wife.

"Stay away from your husband? You stupid bitch-born cow, you think I want _that_ troll? Arrogant _bitch_. Who do you think you're talking to…?" I grumbled fiercely as I pulled open the door of the town's only shop, the _Riverwood Trader _scratched into the sign hanging loosely above it.

Inside the Riverwood Trader it was all wood walls and dim, smoky candlelight, dirt swept over the floor and miscellaneous items piled to the rafters and spilling over the counter in the corner. Bundles of dusty, dried herbs and skinned critters hung from pegs on the wall, bottles of potions and liquor lined the shelves and counters, armor and hides piled in a haphazard heap in the corner, and blades were laid out on the countertops.

Behind said counter stood a dusky-skinned Nord with cropped dark hair, his shoulders tight and his arms crossed, arguing with a woman who looked much like him but for her hook nose and bright red, scowling lips, stood in the middle of the room, her fists on her hips and a crease on her brow. I glared at the rafters before shifting quietly back against the door, in the shadows, listening.

_There is always an opportunity in simple conversation. More so in disagreement._

"Well one of us has to do something." The woman said impatiently. The man behind the counter was quick to deny.

"I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

"Well what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!" The man threw up his hands.

"We are done talking about this."

The woman glared at him, arms crossed over her chest much like the man's, and spun away, stomping back over behind the table in the corner by the stairs. Seeing as their little spat was over, I stepped into the dim light, and the man started as he noticed me, stepping back a bit and relaxing his stance. I approached the counter, unslinging the larger pack I'd snagged at the bandit's camp.

"Ahh, hello. The name's Lucan Valerius. I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open for business. Feel free to shop." I snorted, and dangled the pack in front of his face.

"You buying, Valerius?" The trader folded his arms, again. _A habit, or is he tense?_

"Of course."

"Good." I muttered with a grin. Dusty, fool-filled town or no, the prospect of gold would always be a brilliant one. I started pawing through my bag, pulling out the extra armor and weapons—iron breastplates and heavier armor, maces and a warhammer, a shield and an extra bow, things I wouldn't need or couldn't use—the gold ring, and all the damned cabbages these dirt-caked Nords had lying around that I'd grabbed.

I eyed the woman out of the corner of my eye while this Lucan sorted through the goods, pricing them. She was agitated, that much was obvious, her face pinched and frustrated; and their little argument, particularly the "'thief-catching'" bit, was certainly interesting. I turned my attention back to the man and flashed a perfectly charming smile as he slid a nice pile of gold coins over the wood towards me.

"Something…unfortunate happen?" I asked him as I pocketed the money, keeping my tone calming, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. The man looked over my shoulder—presumably at the woman—then back at me with a frown. He shrugged his shoulders a bit.

"Eh, yes, we did have a bit of a…break-in. But we still have plenty to sell! Robbers were only after one thing."

_One valuable thing._

"What was it?"

"An…ornament. Solid gold. In the shape of a dragon's claw." Though the word 'dragon' now brought thoughts of loathing, distaste, and other various assorted forms of dislike, the phrase 'solid gold' more than made up for it.

_Gold. Oh, hello my dear._

The man had to know something.

"I could help you get it back." I urged, leaning towards him and placing a hand over my heart.

_My black, black heart. Ha!_

"You could?" Valerius exclaimed with definite relief.

"Well…" I drawled. "For a price…I'm afraid a refugee like myself can't afford complete generosity." I struggled desperately not to gag on my own words.

_Help. Refugee. Generosity. Gods, help me. It's for the gold. Think of the gold. Solid gold!_

"I've got coin coming in from my last shipment." His gaze had turned a tad bit more pitying behind the excitement, and I kept chanting the greedy mantra in my head. "It's yours if you bring my claw back."

"Then we have an accord." I nodded, grinning. Valerius nodded back at me.

"If you're going to catch those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town. Now—"

"So this is your plan, Lucan?" The woman demanded behind us, and I looked over my shoulder at her with a barely restrained glare.

_If that little wench messes this up…_

"Yes, Camilla." Lucan huffed, sounding oddly…smug. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"

"Oh really? Well I think your new helper here needs a guide."

_Don't presume I need a guide you stupid little prat! Gods, no. No, no, no, I won't have this annoyance! _

"Wh—no! I…I…Oh, by the Eight! Fine! But only to the edge of town. No further, sister!"

_Damn you to hell, tradesman. You and your kin both._

I heard a chair scrape behind me followed by footsteps as the wench stood from where she'd been sitting and walked to the door. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenching tightly, and pulled on my pack. I gave the damned troll-bait one last smile for appearance's sake, though it likely looked more like a grimace.

The wench chatted infuriatingly in a nasally, vain voice as she led me through the town, giving directions as she went. I filtered out most of what she said except for mentions of how some things in the store were worth just as much as the claw, and made a mental note to rob them blind later.

The annoying woman led me to a bridge I could have seen from the shop's porch, and I gripped my daggers tightly, gnashing my teeth in rage. Not only had this been completely unnecessary, but I now had _another _headache.

_I'm slitting your throat whether I get paid or not, damn it all._

But then she was saying she had to get back, looking almost nervously at my face, and my chance to dump her blasted body in the river then and there walked quickly away. I growled, looking up at the mountaintop I would be climbing. It was fairly far off, and the sun had already set as it was.

_On the morrow or the next day, then._

I trudged the few strides back into the town proper stiffly and made an agitated beeline for the local inn—only slightly less shoddy than the rest of this damned place—known _so _charmingly as the Sleeping Giant Inn. With another glare at the wood, I grasped the handle and yanked it open.

To my utter disdain, I was immediately assaulted with the strumming sound of a lute, as well as many choice…odors. Inside, the common room was a long hall of gray stone. To my right was a small array of wooden chairs and a large animal skin rug; and on my left, a row of shallow fire pits ran up the middle of the floor, lined on either side by tables and benches, sitting at which were a handful of people—I spied the siblings Valerius, an elf, the damned smith, and a drunkard so deep in his cups he was dancing atop his seat. At the far end of the room were doorways, a bar, and a set of stairs.

As I walked further into the room, a Nord with tan skin, gold hair, and a haughty expression sitting in one of the chairs stood and gave a shallow bow.

"You look like a traveler. Someone who has seen far away places and heard new stories. I am Sven, a skald, just as my father and my father's father before him. Care for some entertainment during you stay?" He asked with flourish.

_Bard._

"_Bard._" I snarled shallowly. "I'll have none of your services, fool." Seemingly used to such dismissals, the man just gave a noncommittal sound of agreement and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair as I spun away and stomped in the direction of the bar.

I hadn't gone more than five paces when he spoke loudly behind me. "This is an ode to Skyrim's staunch protectors…the Imperials." And then the blasted bastard struck up a strumming melody and began to fucking _sing. _

_Not only is it a blasted bard, but a lover of those thrice-damned, bitch-born, milk-drinking Imperial bastards as well! The thing must die! _

I gnashed my teeth, grinding growls, and began plotting how to go about doing just that as I shoved past a surprisingly sturdy woman with surprisingly fierce eyes steadfastly sweeping the floors—with little actual effect—and came upon the bar. I slammed a palm down on the wood surface, rattling glasses.

"Wine." I demanded shortly, and the man behind the bar leveled me a look before withdrawing a bottle. He was broad-shouldered and dark-eyed and was probably as thickheaded as his skull looked, easygoing manner and all.

"Alto. Five septims." He said gruffly, and I slapped the shiny coins onto the counter. The man reached for a wooden mug, and I held up a hand.

"The bottle."

"It's twelve for the bottle." He stated, his face passive. I gave him the additional charge and snatched the thick-necked, fat-bottomed bottle from his fingers, pulling the cork stopper free with my teeth and taking a long pull. The dry, fruity, slightly sour taste quickened down my throat with a mellow burn I wished was warmer. The man raised an eyebrow.

"Hard times, eh?" He asked coolly, counting up the money. I looked at him sourly, taking another swig, and slammed the cheap wine onto the counter as I took a seat on one of the barstools.

_Innkeepers. Always with an ear to the ground. Good for information, at least._

"Greater than you can imagine." I snorted, smiling grimly. "I just came from Helgen. A dragon attacked." Both the man's eyebrows shot up and his pose slackened in surprise.

"_Really? _We all thought old Hilde was seeing things. By the Eight, a _dragon!_"

"This Hilde woman saw the dragon?" I asked sharply. He nodded.

"Aye, or she claimed as much. Shoutin' it to anyone with an ear." I recalled the old crone who'd been harping at me from her porch, across from the smith's. I'd ignored her at the time, considerably more interesting in possible profit.

"Who is Hilde? Where can I find her?"

_Like it or not, that dragon…came for you—or at least stared right bloody at you. You've got to find out more about it. Anything._

"Been here long as anyone can remember, Hilde. Good woman, talks too much though. Sven's her son. You should talk to him." I gave him a flat look.

"And who is this Sven?" I asked, and the man jerked his chin towards the other end of the hall.

"The lad's right there, playing. He keeps the place busy, and his voice is good, so Delphine lets him."

_No._

"You mean the bard?"

_Please, no._

"Yeah, that's 'im."

_Damn you all._

I cursed luridly, tipped back my bottle and gulped down as much of the wine as I could in one go, and then splittingly demanded a room for the night, no longer trying to mask my blatant fury. There was no way in Oblivion I was going to talk to that lout—_just _damn_ it all, why, _why_ can't I just kill him and be done with it_—tonight. Between my missing guide, the blasted smith, his prat of a wife, and those moronic siblings—especially that hook-nosed bitch—I'd had enough.

The barkeep directed me to this Delphine woman—the one sweeping I'd pushed—and she gave me a hard look with those hawk eyes of hers as she charged me ten gold and waved me to a room. I clutched my wine close, watching her watch me intently, and stumbled into the cramped space, shutting the door behind me, somewhat disturbed, but it passed quickly.

I looked about. The space was small, just a narrow, windowless room with a nightstand, a bed, and a little table with a basin and cutlery atop it. I spun in a slow circle, eyeing all the fixtures, and then I sat on the bed as I finished my drink, feeling just slightly warm and, delightfully, just slightly less irritated.

_If only your tolerance was a little lower..._

When the bottle was empty save for its dregs, I hurled it at the opposite wall and watched it shatter with a small grin. Feeling very tired, I yanked off my pack, boots, bow and quiver, and the belt with my daggers and shoved them all under the bed. Clutching one knife in my hand under the pillow, I settled in and soon slipped under the hazy wave of blackness, despite the blasted bard's muffled racket.

* * *

><p><em>Cold. It was so bitterly cold. And yet the freezing of my limbs and blood and heart seemed familiar. Familiar in a way that was almost comforting, if only in that there was recognition.<em>

_But it was only a near thing, for there could be no comfort in this cold. Nothing could be in cold like this. Nothing._

_And yet there was me, and the voices._

_"Brinnah! Dahmaan brinnah! Faal Al fen du fin lien…Hin dez…Dovahkiin…Hin dez los viik vokul…Dahmaan Dovahkiin…Dahmaan daar…Dahmaan daar brinnah!"_

_In the cold, their voices shattered._

* * *

><p>I jerked awake with a gasp, arms scrambling to wrap tight around me, my fingers frozen around the hilt of a knife, trying to hold in warmth, any warmth. It was so <em>cold…<em>

_But it's not._

I was tucked into my bed at the inn, under blankets and sheltered from the horrid weather outside. I…wasn't cold. The chill was just a phantom, haunting and hurtful. Just a phantom. A dream, or nightmare, brought up by this wretched place. Just a dream.

But I knew it wasn't. _You've had this dream before. The first night here. The voices called to you in the cold then, too._

The voices. In any other moment of insanity, I would have scoffed and waved away my own pathetic lunacy; but this was a time of night fresh from the throes of a fearful, bizarre dream, and instinct was buzzing underneath my skin and up my nerves. It shouted at me to pay attention.

_Think! What were they saying? Some odd tongue, odd words…but they still have to mean something! What?_

But it was useless. Even as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to summon up the sounds of the unknown murmurs again, the memory of the nightmare faded like mist. The words were gone. All that remained was a distinct sense of urgency, and the distinct sense I absolutely _needed _to remember something. Whether or not it was something I'd forgotten, some important detail from the last two days, I didn't know.

_Remember. Remember what?_

Frustrated, I slumped back down and threw an arm over my eyes, twirling the dagger I'd been clutching so long between the stiff fingers of the other. It would have to come later, whatever it was. It was that, or be forgotten.

* * *

><p>When I woke up the next morning, it was only to the barest headache, and a distinctly hollow feeling in my gut. There was also the feeling that I was forgetting something, but even as I thought about it, my stomach gurgled. It occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything since the dried beef strips I'd taken from the bandit's camp yesterday. Pulling on my equipment, I braced myself for gods-only-knew-what idiocy I'd be facing today, and pulled open my room's door.<p>

The common room was fairly quiet, a small blessing, and the bard was nowhere to be seen, an even greater one. A bearded man snored into a puddle of stinking spittle at one of the tables, his head lulling next to the flagon he still clutched in his hands. The barkeeper was already behind the counter, cooking meats and vegetables, while that hawk-eyed Delphine woman went about cleaning up the previous night's mess. As I looked around, I noticed a small alchemy lab against the wall I hadn't seen before, and made a note to use it later.

_Despairingly low on poisons at the moment, considering the sheer amount of infuriating imbeciles you've met thus far._

I went up to the bar and ordered a portion of whatever it was the barkeep—Orgnar, I found—was making, along with a cup of wine. He obliged quickly once I paid him and he didn't say much. I decided I liked him more than a cabbage, which was quite well compared to the rest of the snow-backs in this damned town, who were currently less than dirt.

Once I finished eating, I asked him where Sven and Hilde's home was, and he directed me to yet another rickety thatch home on the other side of the Riverwood Trader. I had the luck to find Hilde there outside, her bard bastard boy nowhere in sight. The woman squinted disdainfully as she saw me, back partially hunched and paper-thin lips curling.

"By Shor, what do you want, elf?" She grumped, and my eye twitched in irritation. I fought to keep my expression friendly and open.

"I heard you saw the dragon. I want to know exactly what you saw." Her wizened, beady eyes widened as much as they were able under all that sagging skin.

"You want to know about the dragon?" She cried. "The dragon! Nobody believes me, but I tell you, I saw a dragon! Big as a mountain, black as night! It went flying on by. Flew right over the barrow."

"The barrow?" I asked sharply, stiffening. "Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"Yes, yes, the barrow. Flew right over it, roaring. The beast will kill us all!"

_If it doesn't, I happily will._

Without another words, I walked off, heading towards my next stop, the mill, not listening to the woman's grumping. My thoughts were churning.

_The barrow. First some utter fool of a thief steals _only _this golden claw from a shop and flees specifically to this barrow rather than some other town where he could sell the thing; then, the gods-damned dragon flies right over it. If the thief took the claw to the barrow instead of going somewhere to sell it, then it must have some use there; and if the dragon went by it…I'm either dealing with pure coincidence, or whatever the claw is part of has some correlation with the dragon. Would it really be just another mountain it happened to go by? The damned things are _extinct_ and this one shows up just into to save my head and raze the damned fort. It can't be coincidence. Damned coincidence and reason are long gone._

I scrubbed a hand through my half-head of hair, frustration simmering. All this damned madness in this damned wasteland was going to be the death of me. With a growl, I pushed the thoughts aside and rounded the corner of the mill-house.

The only person in the yard was a rust-skinned elf chopping wood. No Nords.

_It fucking figures. One of the few times I'm _waiting _for a damned Nord to show up, and they're nowhere to be found. Otherwise, I'm completely surrounded. The utter joy._

The elf seemed to notice me then. He straightened up, stretched, and tossed some halves of wood into a woodpile. He bedded the chopping axe he'd been wielding in a tree stump and came up to me. He was a Bosmer, his woody skin and sharp cheekbones highlighting slanted, amber and black eyes, his head capped by silvery hair pulled back in a rigid tail.

"I remember you. From the inn last night. Did I see you talking to Sven?" He questioned bluntly, and I leveled a scowl at him. "Oh, er, maybe not. Maybe…nevermind. But I would stay away from him if I were you." My glare lessened just a bit.

_Anyone who hates the bard is a step up from dirt to me._

The elf shook himself, shifting a bit. "How about we try this again? Greetings, sister Elf. Good to see a familiar face so far from home. I'm Faendal."

_May as well humor the bark-brain._

"I'm Sereosa." I replied. "You work here, Faendal?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Twelve hours, everyday. I hunt in the early morning, then come here. Riverwood's agreeable enough for a Nord village. There's beauty here unmatched by all of Skyrim, to be sure."

_Very chatty dirt. Or cricket. Yes, that's suiting. A bug, and a loud one._

"You know the owners of the mill, then? Ger—something?"

"Gerdur. Gerdur and Hod. They're decent folk. Why?"

"I'm looking for Gerdur; and someone she's close to. Ralof. Know him? He claims she's his sister." Faendal's eyes brightened, and he rubbed his chin.

"Yes, I remember Ralof. He looks just like Gerdur. He ran off to join the war awhile back—joined the Stormcloaks. How would you know him?"

I glared at him again. "Oh, _very_ well. He's my husband, in fact. We met in a tavern near Windhelm and he swept me right off my feet." The Bosmer was nonplussed by my sarcasm.

"Fine, _joke_. Just don't go stirring up any trouble here."

"Don't go making veiled threats, boy. Have the damned facilities to be either cunning or blunt." I hissed, and he bristled.

"I'm no boy, and I don't mean to brag, but I _know _I'm more skilled than you."

"Are you really?" I drawled. "You said you hunt. Can you shoot a bow, or do you wait around in the brush for the game to drop dead at your feet?"

"I am a hunter, and an excellent shot. I once took down a bear from three hundred yards back. In a blizzard." I was already unslinging my bow.

"We'll see then, shan't we? Show me some sport, _brother Elf._" I hissed mockingly. His thin eyes narrowed in aggression.

"Fine." He spat, and disappeared into the mill briefly before coming back with a bow and quiver. "We shoot for that tree, across the White River." He indicated with a wave of his hand. "Best shot is victor."

"Agreed." I chuckled, leering. I already had my target in mind.

The Bosmer lined up his shot, taking a loose, sure stance, his feet planted and his shoulders back. It was certainly good.

_Way to go. Challenge a Bosmer to an archery competition. You're a masochist, aren't you? What, those sadistic tendencies? Pah! Clearly you enjoy being so aggravated._

Unfortunately, it was a little late to be remembering I was far better with daggers than I was with a bow.

_Damn it. _

Faendal loosed his arrow, and it sailed through the air with a _snick _before it burrowed into the dead center of the tree trunk. It was, admitedly, a far more powerful and accurate shot than I'd ever made. He turned to me with a self-satisfied, challenging stare, daring me to try and fail.

_As if I would allow it._

I took my own stance and lifted my bow, pulling the string back tautly and gazing down the arrow's shaft. I aimed carefully, let out a slow breath, emptying my lungs, feeling my body go still…and fired. The arrow shot out…and plowed into an apple hanging from one of the tree's branches, taking it sailing to the ground. I glanced at Faendal with a smirk.

"The challenge was to hit the tree." He growled, and I shook my head.

"Pay attention to your own words, oh _mighty hunter. _You said the _target _was the tree, and that the winner was the best shot; and I not only shot _at the tree, _but I also struck a much smaller mark successfully."

"Your only skill is trickery!" Faendal protested. "My skill is far superior, you harpy!" I just looked at him, still grinning.

"Perhaps; and yet I am still victor, aren't I?" The elf threw up his hands, clearly exasperated, and stomped off to resume his woodcutting. I trailed after him.

"I don't care a wit for your whining, hunter. I just want to know where I can find Gerdur."

"She and Hod…" He said, panting. "Haven't been around…much these last…few days. Rumor is…a bunch of Stormcloaks…were captured. I think she's off…worrying. For Ralof." He clarified. I let out an exasperated growl.

"Where in Oblivion _is _that damned troll? I've been here for two days and he hasn't shown his craven ass!" Faendal just shrugged and kept chopping. I stared at him, crossing my arms.

_Well, your moron of a Nord is still missing, damn him, and the barrow situation is still far too unclear. Might as well entertain yourself._

"So," I murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Why do _you _hate the bard?"

"Who, Sven?" He asked, finally stopping. He faced me and lowered the axe again. "Just as you say, he's a bard, or so he claims. Occasionally he finds time to do his job here at the mill. Thinks his ballads and sonnets are going to convince Camilla Valerius to marry him. As if she would say "yes." An intelligent, beautiful woman like her wouldn't fall for that nonsense... I hope."

In the interest of curiosity and possible aspect of meddling with the damned bard, I kept just what I thought about Camilla Valeris quiet.

_Intelligent and beautiful are certainly not included. _

"What, you sweet on her and losing out to the bloody _bard? _Oh, you poor, pathetic sod of an elf. The blasted bastard is a _bard._" I really couldn't stress that enough. "He's dumber than a troll. If you can't outwit him for…" _For such a stupid wench. _"For the Valerius girl, then you shouldn't be trying. Or breathing, really."

"I don't need your jokes!" He snarled, seething, but his demeanor quickly changed. "But maybe you've got a point. Maybe Camilla needs some help seeing Sven for what he is."

"A bitch-born bastard and a moron who ought to have his fingers and tongue cut off so he can never make another sound?" I grinned in sadistic delight, and the man looked the slightest bit green.

"Yeah…something like that." He sat on the stump with the axe, brow furrowed in thought. I quirked a brow at him.

"Assuming you don't just want to shove it in her face," I began, and he glared, making me grin. "I suggest subterfuge of some sort: sabatoge, forgery, manipulation, the like." At that, his face brightened. He stood suddenly, running off into the town and calling "'I've got it!'" over his shoulder.

_Idiot._

I sat on the recently vacated stump with a sigh, simultaneously irritated by the elf and thrilled at the thought of seeing the bard miserable. I pulled my daggers out and began twirling them in the air as I waited. Fortunately for Faendal, he wasn't too long in returning. I'd have thrown one of the knives in his eye, otheriwse. When he came to a stop in front of me, panting again, he had a nervous grin on his face.

_Must be an ameture. _

"Could you…" He gasped out, evidently having made quite the rush. "Could you give this to Camilla?" He held out a folded letter. "And say it's from Sven? I think I've matched the Nord's lack of cleverness perfectly." I took the paper from him and read it over, smirking just a bit.

"Not bad, hunter. Not bad." I stood, dusting woodshavings off my pantsseat. I tucked the letter into my jerkin. "I'll get back to you after I give it to her…and after I've had a bit of fun, of course."

"Do as you will, harpy. Just get it to her right." I curled my lip at his little nickname, and waved him off. He rolled his eyes and went back to chopping wood. Again.

I grunted, then moved to go. I was in the middle of the bride when something occurred to me.

"Hey, hunter!" I called, and Faendal looked up. "Come find me if Gerdur or Ralof show up, got it?" He nodded, waving absently. I sighed again, and left it at that as I walked off.

_Any more damned waiting, and I'll go burning buildings until I find one of them myself._ _That, or go picking locks and slitting throats._

At the moment, both options were infintely appealing. With a bare grin, I headed back to the inn.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And that's a wrap. Up next, more adventures in Riverwood, including some conivving misdirection, murder, rumor, and a little, grudging rescue mission. Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Please leave a review! They really help and giv eme encouragement. Also, I am still **looking for ideas for ways to kill the Dremora. **I've gotten some hilarious oddities so far, and urge you to give your own suggestions!

**Translations:**

_Kiir…Jul…Fahdon…Brinnah…Dovah…Drem Yol Lok brinnah…Zu'u zeymah…Dahmaan brinnah…dahmaan daar…Faal Al daal…Faal Al fundein…Vokun…Vol…Faal Al fen du fin lien…Hin dez…Dovahkiin…Hin dez los viik vokul…Dahmaan Dovahkiin…Dahmaan daar…Zind Voth Ahkrin… :_

Child…Man…Friend…Sister…Dragon…Greetings sister…I am Brother…Remember sister…remember this…The Destroyer returns…The Destroyer unfurled…Shadow…Horror…The destroyer will devour the world…Your fate…Dragonborn…Your fate is defeating evil…Remember Drangonborn…Remember this…Triumph with courage…


	4. Devious

**A/N: **Ho- shit this chapter. XD It like, wrote itself in two days flat and I barely remember doing it. Downside is a rush like that leaves a lot of editting to be done XD So that took a few days and the gracious patience and skill of my dear beta 333

Many thanks to _One-Legged Joe, TwistedSystem, _and _Sharkbite1000 _for their reviews and comments! It means a lot! Also, many thanks and hugs and kisses to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favs. You all inspire me. :'D

**Thanks to my beta _eye of the divine _for her work!**** Ilu Luuly-darling!**

**Disclaimer: I own** nothing.

Enjoy, everyone! The first ever segment of "Fucking with the Bard" is concluded-for the moment-in this one!

* * *

><p>When I got back to the Sleeping Giant, the bard was not there. My fingers twitched with the itch to slaughter something, and I drew a harsh breath through clenched teeth as I furiously thought of things I liked in an attempt to cool my head.<p>

_Gold. Blood. Power. Screams. Silence. Heat. Bathes. Cherries. Wine. Anything…_

It worked marginally. Or at least, I was distracted by the thought of cherries and wine, preferably cherry wine. Hoping, though knowing it was unlikely—this being the blasted opposite of a cherry tree's clime—that Orgnar would sell the vintage, I approached the bar, dodging out of the way of Delphine's broom as I went when it came perilously close to my legs. I scowled at her over my shoulder, and she stared right back, glowering with those damned demon-eyes like she knew better than I did.

_Damned woman's trying to hit me, I know it. That bitch. I don't like you either, you damned wench, but cross me twice and the only thing left to sweep these floors will be your severed hands._

Oh, that was a nice image. Maybe I'd just cut the hands off and leave them clutching the broom? Yes, that'd do. I grinned widely, even more so when I noticed Orgnar eyeing me like one would a madman. It was funny, really, how a man looking like him—pale skin, wide cheekbones, rock-jaw, deep-set eyes and the shoulder-length brown hair tucked behind huge ears—could still convey wariness. I'd thought most of these trollish people stone-faced.

"You look happy." He said without preamble as I sat down, and I leered at him.

"I found something remarkably entertaining to think about."

"Right." He rubbed at the counter with a stained cloth. "You want something?"

"You carry cherry wine?" I asked, eyebrows raised. They furrowed quickly when he outright shook his head.

"We got Alto wine, and we got just wine. That's the best your gonna get. Plenty of ale and mead though." I frowned, nose scrunching.

"No. No ale, no mead." With a slightly disappointed sigh, I picked twelve septims out of my coin purse. "I'll have another bottle of Alto though." Another bottle would do me good; and I wouldn't be all-out drunk until around my fourth anyways…

We made the exchange, and I sat there for a time, sipping my drink, while Orgnar rearranged some bottles and bushels, seemingly with nothing else to do, though I noticed he was watching the occupants of the inn as he did so.

_How much, exactly, do you see, barkeep? _

"I've got a couple questions."

"Go ahead." He responded bluntly, his attention turned to me as he leaned against the counter.

"Do you know where I can find Sven at this hour?"

"Pretty simple: if he's not here playing, he's visiting Camilla Valerius. He has a shift at the mill, but he never goes there."

_The trader's then. Brilliant._

"What about a woman named Gerdur and someone named Hod? Now where I can find them?"

"Hod and Gerdur aren't talking to no one right now. Told me to send anyone who wants 'em on their way."

"It's important." I scowled, but he was unaffected. His plain gaze only hardened.

"If it's so bad, then you can wait 'til they're ready to see people. Until then, leave them be, or we'll have to hurt you."

"How bold of you to threaten your customers. Won't Delphine be displeased? I've seen her yell at you."

"Delphine," He said evenly. "Would be the first one sticking a blade in your gut. Watch yourself, pay your tab, and everyone's happy, elf."

"As you say." I murmured, striving to be agreeable, and drinking again. I had no intention of being 'good', but I wouldn't get the whole town against me outright. Not when I didn't have anywhere else to move on to yet.

_At least, I'll make something of an effort not to be _caught_ being bad._

After a few moments of passive silence, I heaved a sigh and looked at him again. "What about local news? Heard any rumors?"

"Yeah, plenty." He paused, reaching under the countertop and withdrawing a thick piece of parchment. "The Jarl's men dropped this off a few days back. Something about a big group of bandits. There's a bounty for killing their leader."

"Oh?" I grinned at the word 'bounty'.

"Yeah. Over at Knifepoint Ridge." Orgnar extended the paper, and I snatched it from him, reading the few short notations over rapidly.

"Anything else?" I asked as I stuffed the paper into my coin pouch for safekeeping. I looked up to notice him looking me over, as if to measure me. I frowned, and he shrugged.

"Well, we got a bandit problem around here too. Some of the carts passing through from Helgen awhile back were complaining about raiders up in the old iron mines—Emerbshard Mine, it's called. Stealing goods, killing people, even takin' folk."

"This mine is on the route from Helgen?" I thought back to my own trip from the razed hamlet. "That fork in the road down the river, there's a path leading up into the hills. Is that the way to the mine?"

"Yeah, that's it alright. You must have gone by." I nodded in affirmative. "You're lucky you didn't run into them."

"I would have managed." I said coolly, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms. "I already killed some bandits camping out that way, and I fought my way out of Helgen during a _dragon _attack. Don't underestimate me."

"Never said anything." He grunted, and I scowled.

"Pah! Whatever." I grumbled, smoothing out my expression and shifting a bit in my seat. "So these bandits at the mine, they take people?"

"Eh. Not sure, really. No one from Riverwood's gone missin'. Just traders, travelers, supposedly. I guess anyone with something of worth on 'em would be in trouble."

"Right. Thanks." I stood, taking another sip of wine, and slid five septims across the counter before I moved away, bottle in hand. "Tell me if you hear anything else."

I cast a cursory look around the room as I turned about, noting that the drunken slop was indeed the same man who had been frolicking about like an oxen last night. He seemed to be awake…at least partially, and looking so dejectedly into his empty flagon that a laugh bubbled past my lips before I could check it. I saw Delphine—_bitch_—look at me out of the corner of her eye with a distinctly displeased expression before it morphed into one of tried patience as the man hailed her over. He asked her something, pleading, if his slumped posture and clasped hands were anything to go by, and the innkeeper was shaking her head almost immediately with one hand on her hip, the other making agitated little motions. By the time she walked off, the drunk was looking even more despairing, and a touch grumpy.

_He looks like he's gotten a death sentence, not nursing a hangover._

I almost felt something remarkably like pity for the bum. At least he was amusing. I thought idly of the two bottles of ale taking up room in my pack that would go untouched even if I were drying of thirst.

_Penniless, drunken, filthy moron or no, he _did _make you laugh…You owe him something._

Snorting, I slipped my bag off one shoulder, retrieved the drinks in question, and slipped it back on, juggling the two bottles into one hand and my wine into the other. Tenuously gripped ale in hand, I approached the moping drunkard and clacked the bottles loudly together next to his ear when he didn't look up at me immediately. To my delight, he flinched back with a loud whine, clamping large, hairy hands over his equally grubby ears.

"Whaddaya wan'?" He groused thickly, speech slurred. His pale skin was sallow, and his dark brown hair clung to the back of his neck and his jaw, strands dangling over dark brown eyes, plastered there with putrid sweat. I waved the alcohol in front of his face, but when he went cross-eyed squinting at the movements, I settled for just setting them on the filth-and-spew covered space in front of him, mindful of any part of me making contact with any of the substances. The entire space around him fumed with the smell of vomit and stale ale.

"You looked like you could use a drink." I explained, leaning away from him as he straightened up and stared joyously at the two bottles. With a grateful—albeit wet—gasp, he lurched forward and snatched up the ale with a focused precision I hadn't expected.

_Someone's priorities are clear. _I thought wirily as he fumbled thanks and blubberingly called me his new drinking buddy.

I rolled my eyes and carefully put some distance between his reeking form and my own. As I backed away, I heard the sound of the heavy door creaking open, and snapped my head up, looking to see who'd just entered. It was Sven. I grinned.

_Let the game begin._

As the bastard Nord settled casually in one of the chairs, the same as the eve before—a habit, or preference, perhaps—I saw he appeared decidedly pleased. There was a smile on his lips and his eyes were crinkled in mirth, his confident, lazy pose radiating satisfaction. Yes, he was pleased. Entirely too pleased, really. Perhaps his little foray over at the trader's had gone well.

_I suppose it can only make things that much sweeter later on._

Steeling myself with a deep breath and two great gulp of wine, I set aside the empty bottle, arranged my face into a mask of friendly concern and approached the bitch-born bard. He looked up with a charmed smirk as I came over.

"Hello again, miss. What can this humble prodigy do for you? A request, perhaps?" Inwardly, I gagged a bit on the incredible urge to cut off his entire damned face, if only to get rid of that _damned _mouth. Instead of attempting just that, though interestingly gruesome, I just gave a little nod and smile before resuming my caring façade.

"You're Sven, yes?"

"Ah, so you know of me." His grin brightened, and he stood, giving me the same shallow bow he had the first night. It seemed he'd already forgotten he'd introduced himself to me in far too many words. Perhaps this was why Faendal considered him such a witless fool.

"Yes, I know of you."

_I know how much I want to kill you._

"Well, what can I do for you?"

"This may seem strange, but are you…closely acquainted with Camilla Valerius?" His brow lifted.

"Why yes, I am. I'm composing a ballad for her, in fact—to show my affections. Why do you ask? You have something for me from her, perhaps?"

"Not quite. You see, I met an elf called Faendal at the Riverwood Trader the other day, talking to Camilla. It was all rather sweet between them, so I thought to ask him of it…"

The moron was completely fixated, leaning forward, his brow smashed down against his eyes.

"He began to tell me of his love for Camilla, and how you were also trying to capture her heart. He urged me to help him win her over by turning Camilla against you with a fake letter. He said that as a sister elf, I should support him, both of us being surrounded by hostile Nords and all. He gave me this letter to pass on to Camilla—I was to tell her it's from you. Here." I produced the paper and handed it to him. He scanned the paper with a rapidly souring, though shocked expression. When he was done, he tossed it aside in a fit.

"What is this? The elf playing at treachery? Shocking. As if I would write this drabble!" I nodded along like my head had been partially disconnected from my neck.

"It seemed so dishonest, and you such a good man from what the townsfolk have said…I thought I should tell you…"

"That brooding pig! He thinks he can woo Camilla away from me with his tricks, does he? She's mine, I've already told him! He knows that she knows I'm the best man in Riverwood, so he would resort to this!" He paused in his tirade, looking at me with a thoughtful, if outraged frown. "And he would drag others into this based on their race! If Camilla knew how racist he really was, she wouldn't give him a passing thought!"

"Perhaps we take advantage of this?" I suggested with the proper inflection of cunning and meekness. I even rang my hands. "Camilla seemed to be very friendly with him. He could be a threat."

"You may be right. Camilla may see Faendal as little more than a friend…but still. I have an idea. I'll write a new letter, and you do with it just as Faendal would have you do to me." He scrambled around for a bit, producing a new piece of parchment and some charcoal form his person and using his previous seat as a writing surface—I suppose he couldn't be bothered to go for the table a foot away. When he was finished, he stood with a determined flourish and brandished the letter, looking extremely satisfied.

"Here. I had to use simple words, but it should convince Camilla it's form him. Give this to her, and remember to tell her it's from Faendal! It's full of venomous nonsense that'll show her just how despicable he is!"

_Hmm…To try my luck…or to not?_

"I don't know, Sven. I didn't feel good about tricking you. Why should I do it to Faendal?" I lamented. He pursed his lips, and then went rummaging in his pockets with his free hand. When he pulled it free, I saw the glint of gold. He pushed it into my hands along with the new letter.

_Yes!_

"Here. Gold from my tips playing here. I'll even give it to you now in good faith. Please, give Camilla the letter." He urged, and I made a show of looking between him and the gold.

"…Very well." I agreed, pocketing the money. "She'll get her letter."

_And won't it be a lovely surprise?_

We exchanged a few more parting pleasantries before Delphine came over to talk to the damned fool about his playing. While they argued, took a glance around and then quietly snatched up Faendal's discarded missive and slipped out of the inn. As soon as I was out the door, down the rickety steps, and in the dirt road, I threw back my head and laughed. A few milling people and two children stared at me with some measure of curiosity, annoyance, or fear, and my amusement only grew for it.

_What great fun that bard's betrayed face shall be!_

Still cackling—though at a lower volume—to myself, I hurried to the trader's.

* * *

><p>"My dearest Camilla, I yearn to have you as my own, washing my…linens?" The Valerius bitch glanced at me questioningly, and I just shrugged. She returned to reading with a frown. "…And my fine blond hair, to cook dinner from my stove…and tend to my house while I <em>wander?!<em>" Her snooty voice shot up in pitch, and I restrained a full-out flinch in favor of a small cringe. Helpfully, said expression must have looked properly horrified—though for a very different reason—when Camilla whipped around to stare at me, furious.

"From _Sven?_" She demanded, not for the first time, and I nodded gravely.

"Yes! I was just chatting with him at the inn, and he paid me to deliver this to you! Ask Delphine, she saw me." For a moment, the hook-nosed bitch spluttered rather remarkably like a dying fish; then, her face clouded over as if with thunderclouds, and her frame trembled.

"That chauvinistic _pig! _How _dare _he say something like this to me! To think I ever thought he was handsome! Ugh!" She spat, evidently both enraged and disgusted. "Why I—I'm not letting him get away with this!" And with that she positively ran out the door. I smirked and scurried after her.

The wench stomped down the street with all the foreboding of a storm. I saw Faendal poke his head around the side of a large woodpile, and beckoned him over. He came jogging up behind me as we followed Camilla into the inn. She was shouting before we even got through the door.

"_Sven!_" She screeched, and the delightfully confused bard stood up to greet her, his smile falling from his face. He didn't get half a word out before he was struck with a resounding _smack. _A tension-filled hush fell, the other occupants of the inn staring at the commotion.

_Ohhh. That looked like it hurt._

"Camilla!" He gasped, clutching at his cheek. "What was that for? What's wrong?"

"What's _wrong?_" She hissed, stepping right up to him and poking what might as well have been a barbed finger harshly into his chest. "Don't you dare play with me, Sven! You think I'm some hapless milk-drinker, a woman to sit home and clean up after you?! You've already got a mother, you pig! You damned pig! Don't you ever come near me again!"

"Wha—_what?_" The utter shock, bewilderment, and hurt on the fool's face was so comical I couldn't hold back a snicker. His wide eyes flickered to me, then to Faendal, then to Camilla and back. I could just _see _the pieces falling together in his pathetic little head.

"_You!_" He cried in that prissy voice of his, jamming a finger in my direction. The sweet betrayal I'd been waiting for painted his pinched features. "You and _Faendal_!"

"I did only what you paid me to do!" I cried, taking a step back from the advancing bard, just enough to put me behind Faendal. The Bosmer squared his shoulders and glared at his rival. Glancing around, I saw Orgnar had come around the bar, a hand on his belt knife, while Delphine stood tense and alert, watching, and the smith stood from his seat, arms crossed; even my drunk seemed interested in a possible brawl. However, Camilla intercepted him, clenched fists at her sides.

"Get away form them, Sven! How dare _you?_"

"Don't listen to them, Camilla!" He pleaded with her. "It's all those elves! They're tricking you! Faendal's tricking you!"

"Don't you bring Faendal into this Sven! He's a good man, far better than you are! I would have done well to see that sooner! All your _wooing _was nothing but sleaze! I _hate you!_" She screamed at him, chest heaving. The blasted bard looked absolutely stunned. Camilla took several deep breaths before she slowly stepped back and stood at Faendal's side, placing a hand on his arm.

"Let's go, Faendal." She said shortly, and dragged him out without another word. The hunter, eyes still somewhat wide from the results of our plotting, flashed me a slight nod that I returned before he was whisked away. The door thudded shut behind them.

"Delpine! Get me another ale, a'ready!" My drunk cried suddenly in the silence, and the normal rabble of the common room resumed, the few other patrons returning to their drinks and Delphine going to argue with Orgnar about said drinks going bad as he returned to his position. I turned slowly to face the damned bard.

_Marvelous. _

A gleeful cry escaped my lips and I clutched at my gut as I chuckled, lips pulled wide in a all-out grin, my teeth on display. The sheer misery on the fool's face twisted into ire as he attempted to bore holes in me with his eyes.

"You did this." He hissed lowly, and my grin stretched impossibly wider, so much so my jaw ached. I leaned toward him, staring him right in the eye, shoulders completely relaxed but for their twitches of mirth.

"I'll tell you a little something, _Sven._" I purred deviously. "I _despise _bards." I paused only long enough to watch his expression grow all the darker before I sauntered out the door with one last laugh.

Outside, the happy-shiny sun was stretching its glowy fingers over all from a few hands past noon. I estimated it to be around three in the afternoon. For once, my amusement had me in too good a mood to be bothered over the daytime. Not many people were about, other than the bitch wife and her daughter on their porch and the bard's crone mother on hers. I stretched lazily and lounged against the porch railing, waiting for the wiry figure loitering below to speak up.

"That was…impressive." Faendal commented, a small smile playing at his woody lips. I tilted my head and grinned down at him.

"_That_," I drawled. "Was _brilliant. _Did you see his face? The _betrayal!_ Delicious." He snorted.

"I was surprised myself." He said dryly. "What did you do?"

"Showed him your letter." I shrugged. "He was properly hissy over it and insisted on drawing up a letter to give Camilla from you. I played the good little elf and said I wouldn't do something so awful unless I had a good reason. And gold talks." I laughed again. The hunter stared at me, one eyebrow raised, mouth caught between a vaguely disapproving frown and a very much appreciative smile.

"Well, aren't you the devious one?" He sighed. "I'm impressed."

"And I don't care." I waved a hand absently. "I got to fuck with the blasted bard."

"You really don't like music much do you?"

"I like good music. Screaming, for instance! Or just silence. Beautiful silence."

"Er…right…"

"But to answer what would have been a better question, no, I _do not like _bards. Or their music. Especially bards that are Imperial supporters and sing Imperial odes."

"Not an Imperial fan, eh?"

"No." I growled grimly, my happy mood fizzling like a campfire in the rain. The effort to remain spluttering was valiant, but it was ultimately washed away. "Not at all." Faendal shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it's not my business." He said offhandedly as he reached for his coin purse. "I appreciate your help, harpy. Here's something from my work at the mill." He tossed the small pouch up to me and I caught it with deft fingers, weighing it in my palm.

"My pleasure." I murmured, my sadistic inclinations coloring my tone. The gold quickly disappeared into my own purse.

"And," The Bosmer continued unexpectedly, and I snapped to attention. "I'd like to offer my aid. You've already seen my skill with a bow. If you ever need me, just ask. I owe you that much."

_Huh…interesting. He could be useful, after all._

I smirked just a little. "Very well then, hunter. I'll collect that payment, eventually." He dipped his head.

"Until then." He replied, and turned to go, a new spring of confidence about him. Thoughts of the Imperials I very much hated reminded me of Ralof, and I remembered what I'd been meaning to ask.

"Hey, hunter!" I called, and he froze in his path, looking back at me and tilting his head. "You go out all the time. Have you seen any bandits around the Embershard mine?"

"Yes." He replied, one hands seeming to instinctively move closer to his bow. "All the time!"

"What about Stormcloaks? Imperials? Have any come this way from Helgen?" This time he thought for a moment, his rigged brown creased, before answered.

"Yes, actually! The day before you showed up in town, a couple of soldiers came down that way. The bandits confronted a couple of Stormcloaks, but I took off before any fighting started."

_Well, damnation. That bitch-born troll probably got himself killed or captured. And his damned sister isn't talking without him, it would seem._

"Thanks!" I shouted absently, already thinking, barely hearing his returned dismissal.

_You're on the outskirts of a glacial wasteland you know almost nothing about. You need a guide, and you need information, and, most of all, a destination. There's still that golden claw and this barrow the bloody dragon could be associated with, but you still don't know enough to go clambering into the mountains after them. Information equals someone to readily give it, and right now, the best someone you've got it the Nord who may very well be either a stripped corpse or tied up in that damned mine for some reason. Which means…_

Damn the Nord, damn the gods, damn Skyrim, and damn me. I had to go after him. I had to know.

I was going to the gods-damned mine.

* * *

><p>It took me about twenty minutes to reach the climbing path with the wood slats embedded in the ground that would take me up to Embershard mine. I was gnashing my teeth every second of it.<p>

_Rescuing the troll. Me. Damn it all._

This whole impromptu mission was in direct conflict with at least half my rules. Chief among them being as simple as: _Self first._ Risking my neck on the chance that the Nord _might _be held somewhere in a mine full of bandits was _not _abiding by my stigmata of _me surviving. _Unfortunately, another of my rules was: _Be cautious. Be ready. _Also unfortunately, my insatiable curiosity had a tendency to get in the way of that; and moreover, my survival all too often involved having to risk my life to assure it, which was contradictory. Right now, that was just _so _bloody _wonderful._

_You crack yourself up. Get moving, damn it._

Growling under my breath, I slipped into a crouch, drew my two daggers—now both nicely sharpened with a razor edge thanks to that smith's grinding wheel—and crept up the incline. There was thick undergrowth on either side of the path, bursting bushes and pines with needled branches sweeping low to the ground, as well as massive rocks, probably left over from excavating; and it all made for excellent cover.

I was ducking behind bushes and slipping between boulders as I came up the path and came upon a small ridge where a pair of doors preceeded by an archway of wooden supports, signaled the yawning mouth of a cave…in this case, the mine.

Footsteps crunched nearby. I froze, eyes darting about as I squinted past the leaves of a particular spring of thistle. Up on the ridge, behind a couple of sharply jutting out stone slabs, a sleepy looking, gaunt-faced, balding man stood, dressed in hide armor and armed with an axe and shield, shifting on his booted feet. He would glance around occasionally, but for all the world appeared utterly bored.

_A guard, hmm? As if that will make a difference._

I examined the rest of the ridge. Behind the guard was an overflowing woodpile and a stump for cutting wood, while next to the mine entrance were a few barrels and an empty cart. There looked to be an ideal spot for sneaking up onto the thin space just there, a few feet from the cart, and I padded toward it as quietly as I could. I slid up onto the ridge and crept along the sheer rock wall the mine was blown in, pressing my back into the stone. Very slowly, I came up behind the guard, glad he seemed too out of his wits to notice my shadow overlapping his.

With a quick movement, I struck out, grabbing what hair remained at the back of his head, yanking it down, rising partially out of my crouch, and bringing a dagger up to slit open his throat, all in a single smooth motion. The man gurgled as his deadweight fell back into my arms, blood gushing in droves from the wound, and I grunted with the effort it took to hold the body up. I lowered the corpse to the ground with minimal ruckus by way of backing up a few ginger steps and easing it down.

I patted him down and removed a single lockpick, a handful of septims, a silver necklace, a pair of hide bracers that would do me better than the fur ones I currently had, and the armor itself, since it didn't way too much and could be sold. That done, I dug around in the woodpiles, hoping they were hiding something, but I found only, well, wood, and a woodcutter's axe, which I added to my spoils for future use. A similar inspection of the two barrels got me nothing, and so, grim faced, I carefully maneuvered through the tawny doors and slipped into the dank darkness of the mine.

For a moment, I couldn't see a thing. It was near pitch black as my vision adjusted to the darkness, a dramatic change from the sunny evening outside. Ahead of me, I could make out a dirt tunnel that sloped down gods-knew-how-far, lined with supports, with roots poking through the ceiling. A way down, the dim glow of torchlight penetrated the dank with a hazy, flickering orange ambiance. Breathing deeply of the last vestiges of fresh air that had followed in my wake, I slunk into my familiar, comforting crouch and began padding down the tunnel.

I went down further and further, moving past mounted torches and a cart pushed against the wall full of dust and rock. At the first bend in the path that I came to, the dirt rumble overhead, and a tiny spray of crumbling rock fell down my back. I shuddered, stamped down on the urge to turn around and get out of a potentially collapsing tunnel, and kept moving. I hadn't gone much farther when I came upon a wide cave with a little underground lake. There was a bridge leading from my tunnel to another section across the other side of the cave, and a small, elevated bit of earth to my left also had a little ramp connecting it to this bridge. I started forward to get a better look around, but froze in my tracks when I heard voices close by, just down and to my left, gruff and masculine.

"Aren't you worried someone will wander in here? The entrance isn't exactly hidden, you know."

_Oh, I do love irony._

"This again?" A deeper voice replied. "I told you, we have someone standing guard out there. And, don't forget the rock trap we rigged up."

_Rock trap? Blood and fire! Damnation! Oh…wait. That was that wire-rig you went by, wasn't it? Bah…_

The same voice continued. "So, stop your worrying and get some rest. Your shift is coming up and I don't want you dozing off again like last time."

There were shuffling sounds, the one of the, settling in, perhaps, or moving about, and then the top of a head was poking up into my field of view. One of them was coming up the ramp. If they turned this way, they could see me.

_Blast it!_

I hurriedly, but quietly as I could, unstrapped my bow from my back and knocked an arrow, creeping further out of the mouth of the cave opening for a better view. I zeroed in on the man's head as it appeared fully, followed by shoulders and a bit of torso. My arrow was trained on his skull.

I fired.

The arrow sailed through the air, the _snick _of the bowstring echoing loudly in my ear, and I watched as the little iron arrowhead imbedded itself not in the side of his head, but low in his neck. The likely cause being that he had been moving upwards at the time. The bandit's hands shot up to his neck, scrambling over the barb lodged in his throat even as that beautiful, brilliant ruby welled up around it and gushed past his fingertips. He let out a choked cry, a wet, bubbling gurgle of alarm, and fell to his knees, heaving and spluttering.

There was a cry from the other bandit, and then he was shouting and running up the ramp and over the bridge towards me. He had a largish frame and was dressed in iron, wielding a single warhammer. I backed up quickly, aimed again, not nearly as carefully, and fired. The arrow grazed his exposed left shoulder and he kept coming.

"Damnation!" I cursed, dropping my bow and ripping my daggers free of their sheaths. I brought them up in a cross just in time to block his first strike, a metallic clang screaming in the hollow space.

The bandit pressed his attack, and I grunted as my arms trembled faintly with the effort, falling to one knee under his weight bearing down on me. He leaned forward more, adding more weight, and my other knee dropped. This close, I could smell his putrid breath, and he leered at me, bringing his face nearer.

I spat in his eyes.

The man swore, and reeled back, his heavy hammer thudding to the ground as one hand let go to rub at his eyes. With a snarl, I got my feet under me and launched at him, blades raised high. He stumbled out of the way of the first strike, the knife glancing off his armor, but the second found its home in the bare expanse of skin just above his collarbone. For a moment, I felt the resistance as the blade pushed through flesh and grazed bone…and then the pressure gave, and I toppled over atop the dying man.

I knelt there, half on the bandit, long enough to take both hands and twist my dagger back and forth. The man gasped out a choked shout of pain, and I bore down on the blade harder, hoping to crush his lungs, the windpipe, drown him in blood, anything of the like. Whatever internal damage the move did, his scream cut off and he choked, paling and twitching, before finally falling still. I yanked my dagger out and stood, examining the blood and other bits now decorating the weapon as well as the body.

_Fool._

Heaving a sigh, I quickly scanned the cavern for any more bandits, took up my discarded bow, and then went about quickly searching the two bodies for anything useful. I was awarded more gold, more lockpicks, and a small amethyst stone. I then scoured their little camp, finding two beds, two pots hanging over a fire pit, empty but for the dregs of some stew, some firewood, a patch of mushrooms I couldn't identify—and would later have to ask after—and what appeared to be a mineral vein. I picked some of the mushrooms and made a mental note to come back for the ore once everything so much as breathing in this place was dead.

I climbed back up the ramp and resumed my sneaking as I made my way across the last little length of the bridge and into the passage on the other side. After a few paces, I came face-to-face with a wall of dirt. Looking left and right, I noticed two branching paths, though the right ended abruptly after just a few sloping feet. Upon investigation, I found a little pit with a pile of bones—a skeleton, likely a male, with the thinner hipbone—and next to it a pouch of gold, more mushrooms, a recently lit lantern, and a journal.

_A journal…huh?_

Once again, curiosity overrode the wiser instincts. I snatched up the old, tattered thing and cracked it open, mindful of the decaying cover. Most of the pages were ruined by damp and age, and scrawl faded or the page so darkly stained by water it was impossible to read. The only legible entry I found was in the center of the small book, and was very brief.

"_They've had me working down here for days now. It's not the time that's getting to me though, it's these tunnels. I've told them countless times now to add extra supports to the weak sections of the tunnel. If only we had more of those wooden beams that we reinforced with bronze bottoms._

_Honestly, If I hear the earth shift one more time above my head, I'll be so stressed I may stop drinking for good. I mean, what's a Nord without his mead?"_

I stared at the two pages for a moment, absorbing this, and then tossed the damned thing aside with a quiet snarl. The knowledge that this mine could be even _more _unstable than I'd originally presumed was _not _a heartening one. Anger flared up in my chest and I once again cursed my being here.

_Damn that blasted Nord and his blasted sister and this blasted country! Damn them all!_

I stalked back up the shallow dip and prowled down the left tunnel with both my daggers in my hands. Even as I came around the curve though, I saw it was for not. This short passage led into a sort of room-like space with flooring and furniture, walls made of the rock it was cut out of. An opening revealed a clear view of the entryway I'd come in, as well as the camp, the bridge, and the lake; and next to that little look-out was a lever.

_A lever you are _not _going to touch until you've investigated. _

In the little space was a table with a single chair, a brazier, a shelf, a barrel, and a little empty alcove. The table held nothing of interest, but I food a few potatoes in the barrel and a bottle of Alto wine on the shelf, which I deemed would be consumed the second I was out of here. Seeing nothing else of interest, I went over to the lever.

I studied it for a time even though I had no real idea what I was looking for; but after looking around a bit more, I came to two conclusions: either it would activate a mechanism to lower the raised bridges that would lead across the shallow lake…or it would activate a trap of some sort.

_Like poisoned arrows. Or a pit fall. Or an oil slick with fire. There's lots of possibilities._

It really was a bad quality of mine that I enjoyed a gamble. With quiet sigh, a plea for luck, and one last, choice curse of all the things that had brought me here, I pulled the lever. There was a loud, rickety creak, a squeal, and then the bridges dropped. I grinned victoriously.

Right up until two more bandits came running over the newly completed crossing, weapons drawn and shouting at me—one a dark-skinned man with cornrow hair, carrying a shield and sword, the other a ginger-haired Nord with a lone mace. With a furious expletive, I gripped my daggers and bounded over to the narrow tunnel opening.

This time, the skirmish was both easier and more difficult. There were two of them at once, now, but they were practically on top of each other, blocked up in the passage. The bandit at the front who I was actively engaging had a shield and sword. He nearly succeeded in throwing me back with a shield bash, but I used the momentum of my fall to flip onto my hands and swing my legs up to kick him. My booted foot connected solidly with the underside of his chin, and he was sent sprawling back into his fellow. I landed in a crouch, and dove forward, daggers flashing in the torchlight, and drove one into the fallen bandit's armpit and the other into his chest. As he died, the man behind him regained his footing and swung at me with a mace. I tried to jump back, but my daggers met resistance when I tried to leap away with them in my hands, and I was only jerked back enough that his swing became a glancing blow. Still, it stunned me momentarily.

The bandit took advantage of this and swung at my stomach. Dazedly, I tried to jump away, but the blow still glanced me. The edge of his mace grazed my gut even as I twisted aside and I was sent sprawling onto my back as pain blossomed in my abdomen. I clutched at it, hissing, and just managed to roll to the side and avoid another attack. Grasping my sides and gasping, I clambered to my feet, braced against the wall, and sprinted down the passage past the man as fast as I could with my bruised intestines. I had no time to draw my bow as he came up behind me, and instead snatched one of the mounted torches off the wall and jabbed the burning end into his face. The man screamed, dropping his weapon and clutching at the flaming splinters in his skin, and I grabbed for it. Though it was heavier than the daggers I preferred, it was one-handed, and I could manage.

Gritting my teeth against the pain in my abdomen, I reared back and whipped my arm around, smashing the mace into the side of the man's head. There was an incredibly loud sound somewhere between a crunch and a crack, and the man dropped, red lifeblood and little bits of pink and white already painting the obvious wound in his skull. Breathing harshly, I released the mace with rapidly-numbing fingers and fell heavily back against the dirt wall, sliding down until I sat on my rump.

_Now why haven't you learned healing magic yet? Oh, yes. Because you're a damned moron._

With slow movements, I pulled my pack off and rummaged for one of the precious red-glass bottles of healing potion I'd managed to obtain in my escape from Helgen. Finding one, I took it out, pulled the stopper, and downed the bitter, earthy slime in a few gulps, trying to ignore the little bits of _something _solid I could feel sliding over my tongue. I waited a few seconds…and then hissed in pain once more as my insides went through the process of patching themselves up with assistance from the tonic.

I waited another few minutes, just to be sure, before I stood up again, doing a few simple stretches and twists to test the muscles and bones. It seemed the potion had done its job, because there was no pain or discomfort. Even my head had cleared. Relieved, I went back to the first bandit, retrieved my daggers, looted the bodies—gaining more gold, iron-banded armor, and a silver ring—and went down to cross the new bridge. It led to—_surprise, surprise_—another tunnel. I delved in, my limited patience beginning to fray.

Moving silently down the tunnel and finding no other branching passages or the like, I continued straight on until I came around a very shallow curve and was briefly blinded by an increase in light. I blinked a few times, squinting, and realized I was looking through a gap in the wall, lined with boards, that looked into another room. There were several torches and lanterns inside, and I could see a chest, a weapons rack, barrels and sacks, and pushed up right against the gap, a table littered with gold, food, and a book with a strange symbol on the cover I recognized as a magic tome. I couldn't see a door from here. Though snatching the lovely items on the table was appealing, I didn't know if anyone was in that room or how large it was. With a longing look at the golden sparkle glinting in the torchlight, I continued creeping down the passage.

Only a little ahead of where I'd been peaking into the treasure-filled room, I came to a slightly more open area. I crept into the mouth of the tunnel, close to the wall listening for anything that would indicate the presence of a threat. There were footsteps, the sound of breathing and armor shifting, growing closer. I readied my daggers and pressed further into the shadows of the wall.

The bandit, a woman this time, in furs with an axe in her belt, walked by my little hiding spot just then. She strode over to the left, just out of my view, paused, and then turned and walked back. As she passed me again, her back to me, I darted forward and stabbed by dagger up into the space below her shoulder blades. There was a spray of blood, the woman gasped, and then fell forward, dead, sliding off my blade. I looked around rapidly for anyone else, but found no one.

It was also in this assessment that I got to see just what this narrow space was. In front of me and behind me were two iron-bar cell doors. The one in front of me led into the pretty treasure room I'd been ogling, and wasn't much larger than what I'd seen; however, the one behind me was a tiny little dip in the dirt, just a shallow space blocked off my a prison door.

And slumped inside that cell was an absolutely filthy Nord man dressed in a Stormcloak cuirass.

_Ralof. Damnation._

I stalked over to his cell, straining to see him clearly. He was sprawled among a pile of mismatched bones, and the only other thing inside with him was a waste bucket. I scrunched my nose as the smell assaulting me from within. He reeked.

I reached out and yanked at the door, rattling it, but it wouldn't give. I glanced down at the lock and sneered.

_Well, that woman was checking on him. She's likely the guard; and guard means key._

Sure enough, when I raided her corpse, I found the mine key, a silver ring, and septims. Palming the key, I glanced over my shoulder at Ralof, then at the treasure room, then back to Ralof…

_Troll, or treasure? Troll, or treasure? Troll…or treasure…?_

Treasure. I went over and unlocked the door with the key. It swung open on creaking hinges, and I walked inside. I made a beeline for the table, snatching up the coin purse, stray gold coins, and little piece of amethyst I hadn't seen earlier. Picking up the spell tome, I examined the cover: the background was a simple beige while the three circles spiraling out from a centerpoint were a dark blue.

_Illusion magic._

I opened the book and tilted the pages towards the torchlight. The characters imbedded on the pages seemed to jump and warp before my eyes, blurring in and out of focus even as I read them over. My lips mouthed the words of their own will, and I felt a tingling sensation on my lips and a rushing feeling in my mind.

_A spell to grant you guidance, the gift of sight for seeing where you shall go…Clairvoyance…_

As the final syllable whispered on my breath, the tome became intangible in my hands, wavering, as a strange pulse seemed to escape it and the paper and leather and ink all disintegrated into dust, spilling through my fingers. Such was the nature of magick books.

Shaking my head, I dusted off my palms and went about poking into the barrels and sacks. I found tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages—ugh—and lots of apples. The weapons rack held an iron greatsword and a steal mace, both of which I took, though the sword was heavy. Finally, I opened the chest and smiled at the stash I got: an iron mace, an elegant cooper and onyx circlet, another spell tome, sixty-two septims, and a silver necklace. I read the new tome—a spell for rallying allies, _Courage_—and went back out to Ralof's cell.

Unlocking the door, I threw it open, and waited for a reaction, but got none.

_He's unconscious. Brilliant._

I watched him for a moment, briefly wondering if I should take care in handling him…and then I drew my leg back and kicked my sharply in the side. He went toppling over with a loud groan and a few curses.

"Get up, Nord. We're getting out of here." His head raised and he looked up at me blearily.

"Wha—who…? What's going on here?" He mumbled, confused.

"It's Sereosa, Nord. From Helgen. Get up! Now!" I growled in irritation, grabbing a handful of his filth-covered clothing and hauling as hard as I could. I managed to yank him up onto his feet, and he wobbled a bit before righting himself.

"By Talos, it's you, elf!" The Nord exclaimed, whatever wits he had finally collocating. I snorted to myself and nodded.

"Yes, it's me. And you're going to pay for that fact later, Nord, I swear it."

"Hah!" He took a few experimental steps out of his prison, stretching his legs. "I think you're more loyal than you think, elf. Perhaps you should join the Stormcloaks."

"Don't be ridiculous." I sneered, watching his progress. "This is a matter of convenience. I've been in Riverwood for near three days and I can't get to your damned sister. She's holed up in her home bemoaning your apparent death."

"Gerdur?" He asked, shaking his head. "Talos, girl, you should know better." He muttered to himself. Seeing as he was walking fairly well, I stepped forward.

"Can you fight like that?" I motioned at his ragged form. "Or do you need healing?"

"I'll be fine. Do you have a spare weapon?"

"Maces, swords, daggers, take your pick."

Ralof took one of the hide shields and the steel mace and together we proceeded down the rest of the tunnel. We were slower with Ralof, but time didn't matter much in the depths, away from the sky. Soon, we were approaching the largest cavern yet, and I signaled for Ralof to stay back while I snuck forward.

Stepping into the cavern, I noted several bridges ringing the walls and ramps traversing the space, another lake, this one with a frothing waterfall. I prowled along the wall and came to two small spaces, separated by a thinner wall, one with several beds and the other a latrine area, a bucket sitting in a hole cut in the floor. Turning in slow circle, I noted a woman with a bow patrolling the hanging bridge that cut across the cavern, and two men in a space below where a series of ramps led down. With a frown, I went back to Ralof.

"There's three in there." I whispered quietly. "I'll take out the archer first, but I'll need you to keep the other two off me when they rush us, got it?" He nodded, and slipped into a crouch as well, though a much sloppier one.

Together, we stalked back into the room, and I took out my bow. With the troll breathing disgustingly down my neck, I aimed for the pacing woman and shot, before knocking another immediately after and shooting again. The first arrow slammed into her right shoulder and she was thrown back against the rope rails of the bridge. The second burrowed into the middle of her chest about four seconds after its predecessor, and the woman wavered for a moment before she went toppling over and into the water below with a humongous splash.

"Huh? Hey!" The other bandits yelled, searching wildly for us, and Ralof jumped up with a bellow, charging forward, down the ramp directly at them to our right; while I ran around the walkway to my left and leapt down behind them. I bit back a cry when the fall jarred my legs hard enough to be painful, and dove into the fight. There was a ring of steel and a thud as Ralof countered the bandits' blows, and it masked my advance as I ran up behind the dark-skinned man wielding two short swords and stabbed him in the back. He faltered, and Ralof's mace crashed into the back of his head. His companion, an Orsimer wearing nothing but leather leggings, too tripped up, though he over the dead man's body, and I leapt on his hunched back and stabbed my blades into either side of his throat. He fell flat, and I had to yank my arms back to keep them from getting crushed.

We both stood still for a minute, breathing heavily, staring at the cooling bodies and each other. After a time of listening to nothing but panting breaths and the rumbling water, I heaved a sigh and rolled the Mer over so I could check his pockets. Ralof took the hide boots and bracers off the other one and put them on, but otherwise left his gold and other baubles to me. Walking around the area, I found they'd been using it as a forge. There was a blacksmith's forge, a workbench, and a grinding wheel, as well as some iron ingots and raw iron ore, all of which I took.

Padding over to the lake, I debated wading out into the water to fish the woman's belongings off her. Ralof came up behind me then, mumbling about wanting some mead, and I was all-too-well reminded of his ghastly odor. I stared at the lake…and a smile curled my lips.

_Well, why waste the resource?_

While he was mid-sentence, I fisted a hand in his grubby not-so-blond-anymore hair, and shoved him head first into the water. He plunged in with a shout and a splash, his feet dragging against the shore but the rest of his merrily submerged. The troll came up coughing and spluttering, hacking up mouthfuls of water, a fierce glare on his face.

"What was that for, you damned hag?" He tried to yell, but the volume was severely deterred by his choking. I just raised an eyebrow at him and scrunched my nose.

"You reeked." I drawled blandly before stepping into the pool and wading out to the bandit woman's buoyed form—I wasn't trusting Ralof with any spoils right after dunking him. Besides her armor, I found a soaked slab of roasted meat and a few septims. I sighed in disappointment, and turned to slosh back to shore, but was suddenly shoved underwater by a firm hand on the back of my neck. I gasped in a lungful of water and convulsed, choking, and the pressure disappeared. I surged back to the surface coughing and gagging, scrambling for my daggers. Water stung my eyes as I forced them open and slashed out at the blurred shape in front of me.

"Gah!" It yelled, splashing away, and I realized it was Ralof's voice. With a shrieking snarl, I sheathed my blades and wiped the droplets from my eyes.

"You fucking bastard!" I screeched, the only thing keeping me from strangling him the already-bleeding gash running across his cheek and slicing through the bridge of his nose—the result of my blind attack. The Nord had one hand hovering over the wound, the other over his axe. He watched me warily.

"By Talos, elf! You did the same to me!"

"You're the biggest fool I've ever met if you think that justifies attempting to drown me! By all the gods! You absolute idiot!" Growling, I shoved past him and stalked up the twisting ramps until I got to two more rooms.

One was a storage area contained just shelves of sacks and barrels, along with a chest. I raided them all for a supply of more potatoes, tomatoes, leeks, apples, and carrots; and in the chest, was a good cache of septims, silver rings—jeweled and not—and an enchanted gold necklace. When I slipped the pendant over my head and settled it atop my breastbone, I found there was a small thrill of extra energy, strength, when I gripped my daggers.

The adjoining room looked to be a makeshift kitchen with shelves, tables and chairs, and a cooking pot. I took the rabbits and pheasants hanging from a circular rack, the wine from the shelf, and the bread and roast meat from one of the tables, which was still warm; these, I gave to Ralof, who had come trudging up, finally. The assumption that he hadn't been fed seemed correct: he ate ravenously, muttering his thanks. Though I was hungry myself, this was no place for a lengthy meal, so I bit viciously into a crisp apple, mottled green and gold, as I went about gathering more supplies.

When he was done and I was satisfied with what I'd collected—I couldn't carry much more, or I wouldn't be able to run with the weight—we crossed the swinging bridge the archer woman had been on. Gloomy light shone in the tunnel on the other side, and we quickened our pace.

With tired steps, we finally emerged from the rapidly narrowing exit and into the cool night. I shivered in the breeze and breathed deeply of the crisp, clean air. Ralof seemed even more relieved than I, falling to his knees and staring up at the dusky sky. It was dark, but also just enough so that the sun couldn't have sunken below the horizon too long ago. Around seven or eight at night, perhaps.

I rolled my shoulders and sighed, dragging a hand over my eyes. At least the dunk in the lake had cleaned me up a bit. I was still going to mangle the troll for it, of course, but there _was_ some benefit.

"Let's go." I said to the Nord slumped at my feet, and began walking down the brush-lined little path I wouldn't have so much as deemed a game trail—wherever the mine had spat us out, it wasn't where I'd gone in. When there was no movement behind me, and I turned to glare at him over my shoulder. "Come _on._"

"Give me a moment." He rumbled, glaring right back at me. I growled under my breath.

_This is taking far too long. Damnation! Damn him!_

"I said, come on!" I hissed, and stomped back up to him, grabbing his arm and hauling him up. His angry look changed into confusion as I drew one muscled arm over my shoulders. Thankfully though, he kept quiet, and with my support, we began the stumbling down the path.

I was wary of where it would lead us at first, but the surrounding trees quickly broke as we walked out onto the very same road I'd come up to get to the mine. The river, waters so much darker, almost a eerily violet in the night, rushed by right before us. For whatever reason, the sight made the troll quite happy, and with renewed vigor, we made the trek back to Riverwood.

* * *

><p>My luck must have bene holding out, because I caught my Bosmer follower just as he was leaving the mill, likely to retire for the night.<p>

"Faendal!" I yelled, and his head snapped 'round, short tail of hair wobbling. His slanted eyes widened as he saw me half-dragging the Nord man, and he took several steps toward us before I shook my head to stall him. "Go fetch Gerdur! I don't care if she doesn't want to come out! Tell her her brother's back!"

Though clearly bewildered, the cool-headed elf gave me a nod of affirmative and took off running. I stumbled over to the chopping stump and dropped Ralof none-too-gently onto it. He grunted uncomfortably, shifting to sit up on his own. I slumped against fence beside it, set down my heavy bag, and folded my arms, waiting. Another small blessing, I didn't have to wait long. Ralof saw them approaching first.

"Gerdur!" He cried, and a Nord woman with blond hair and hard eyes and—

_Damn, they really do look alike. _I observed. She was the feminine version of the troll.

"_Brother!_" She shouted, her skirts flying as she ran up to him. "Mara's mercy, you're alive! Oh, it's good to see you!" And she threw her arms around his shoulders for just a moment before she pulled back, though her hands clasped his. "Is it safe for you to be here? We heard that Ulfric had been captured, and I'd feared the worst for you…" She was prattling.

"Gerdur…Gerdur!" Ralof stopped her rambles. "Gerdur, I'm fine. At least now I am." His sister reached up and touched the slahs on his face, ice eyes roaming over the rest of him.

"Are you hurt? What happened? Where have you been?" She paused, seeming to notice me. "And who's this? One of your comrades?"

"Not a comrade yet, but a friend." He looked at me as he answer her. "I owe her my life, in fact. Twice over."

"By Talos…" The woman said quietly, and I shifted, both uncomfortable and appalled by the gratitude in her gaze. Ralof addressed her again, and thankfully, she looked away.

"Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when news form Helgen will reach the Imperials."

"It likely already has." I snorted. "I told you, it's been three days. If the bitch-borns haven't heard yet, they soon will."

"Helgen?" Gerdur asked. "Then the rumors, Hilde…has something happened? Has—" She broke off suddenly, glancing between us. "You're right. We must talk. Follow me."

We all turned to follow her, and I noticed Fanedal and a burly Nord man standing on the other side of the river. Gerdur called to him.

"Hod! Come on! We're going home."

"What's going on, woman? I—" He gaped as we drew up to him. "Ralof! It really is you! What's happening?" But Ralof just shook his head.

"Not here." He said sternly, and kept moving. I gave Faendal a nod as the group passed him, and with a shrug, he returned it, walking off toward the Riverwood Trader, likely to be with the Valerius wench.

_Ugh. Romance. Knife me in the leg any day._

I followed the troll family past the inn to a modest house at the reaches of the tiny town, ringed by a fence where a bull grazed. One by one, they all slipped inside, Ralof beckoning to me as he went. I patted my weapons, checking them, and then went inside.

The first thing I noticed—frankly, it was there first thing anyone would see, being right in front of the door—was the fireplace. It was built of an extra layer of stone along the walls and bordered by the thick beams—tree trunks, really—supporting the house. A half circle of stone served as a buffer and workspace between the fire pit itself and the rest of the stone floor, and a large pot filled with simmering stew bubbled atop it. On one side of the fireplace was a small pile of firewood, on the other a modest cauldron and a table, above which hung herbs and game from a wooden beam. Ralof sat in the chair at the table. Further along that wall was a shelf, a chest, and a single bed that Hod sat on, drumming his fingers on the adjacent nightstand. I stepped further into the room, noting another shelf next to the door on my right, and that the main floor space was clear—all the furniture was pushed up against the wall.

Gerdur showed up then from some other part of the little house, passing by Hod and coming to stand between Ralof and I. When I leaned around to peek at just where she'd come from, I saw the corner of a bed and a bar nicely stocked with wine…that I would certainly be helping myself to.

"Frodnar's asleep." She informed suddenly, and Ralof nodded. I assumed this Frodnar was someone they didn't want listening in, a child or guest, perhaps. Hod rose from the bed and came to stand beside his wife.

"Now, Ralof, what's going on?" His eyes flickered between his kin and me. "You two look pretty well done in." Ralof sighed heavily.

"I can't remember when I last slept." He admitted, and I snorted.

"Unconscious in a cell isn't sleeping, eh Nord?" I drawled, and he shot me a glare, but otherwise ignored me.

_Guess he doesn't count abduction as worth mentioning. I suppose dragons have a way of trumping that._

At the thought of dragons, my mind turned to the dark memories of Helgen, and I frowned as Ralof began his story.

"Where to start?" He muttered, and put a hand to his head as he went on. "Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing."

_And bundled me in along with them, the bastards._

"It was…like they knew exactly where we'd be. That was," He glanced at me. "Four days ago, now."

"We stopped in Helgen in the morning, two days past, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman's block and ready to start chopping." I growled low in my throat at that, still angry at my weakness. The three Nords paid me no mind.

"The cowards!" Gerdur spat, her hands balling in the fabric of her dress. Ralof nodded.

"They wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would have seen the truth then."

_What you perceive as truth, you blasted fool._

"But then…" And the Nord's voice grew dark and somber, that of a man who'd witnessed what he believed to be truly horrible. "…out of nowhere…a dragon attacked…"

"You don't mean a real, live…" Gerdur gasped in a trembling voice. Hod put a hand on her shoulder.

"I can hardly believe myself, and I was there. As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon."

"I can certainly vouch for that." I said lowly, and the troll actually almost-smiled.

"Aye, that you can." He resumed his tale. "In the confusion, we managed to slip away."

There was a moment of silence, and then he spoke again, his tone quietly horrified. "Are we really the only ones to make it to Riverwood?"

"Nobody else has come up the south road, as far as I know." Gerdur answered, and I sighed, and nodded.

"I've been keeping watch, waiting for you to show up. No one else has come." I told him bluntly, and he lowered his head.

"I see…" He shook himself. "This is good. Maybe we can lay up for awhile. I hate to put your family in danger Gerder, but…"

"Nonsense." She cut in. "You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to, Brother. Let _me _worry about the Imperials."

_I'd rather you let me. Throats to cut, fingers to chop and all that fun…_

Gerdur turned bodily to face me, a sickeningly welcome expression on her face. "Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine."

_Still better to take the resources where you can get them._

"I am Sereosa." I said, nodding at her. She moved to dig for something in her apron and withdrew a dull gray key.

"Here's a key to the house. Stay as long as you like." She held it out to me, and I took it, fighting desperately to keep my face calm and accepting. Internally, I was crowing.

_The wench has no idea what she's just done! Hahaha!_ _Oh, if not for appearances…_

"I have a room at the inn paid for through tonight. I'll stay there for now, and come back here the day after. Thank you." I explained as graciously as possible.

"Alright, then. If there's anything else you need, just let me know. You saved my brother, and I'm grateful for that." I just nodded some more, biting the inside of my cheek.

_The bitch is being far too hospitable—and far too trusting. Damn reciprocation and damn me for needing these people._

"If there's anything else I can do, call on me." I replied at length, and a shadow passed over the Nord woman's face before she looked me over, assessing…

_Oh, no. Please don't ask after something. Gods, why?_

"Well, there's something you could do for me. For all of us here. The Jarl needs to know it if a dragon's loose. Riverwood is defenseless…We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can. If you do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

_Damnation._

Like the moron I was for getting myself into this, I just nodded again, practically gnawing on my tongue in an effort to keep back curses and vitriol.

"Thank you, sister." The troll said gently. "I knew we could count on you."

_You knew you could count on her. The bitch wouldn't so much as leave the damned bed before I hauled your pathetic arse back here_.

Annoyance, frustration, and anger at far too many things all simmering, I excused myself for the night and left. The urge to murder, maim, and inflict copious amounts of pain was raging, and I was more than inclined to indulge. Even as I stepped out the door of the troll family's house, a vicious smile stretched across my face, my target decided. Once outside, I rushed back to the main road and set my sights on the house I was looking for.

_This is going to be fun._

* * *

><p>Sven woke up in the morning with a throbbing head and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt disgusting. Oddly, there was no piercing burn from the firelight as he cracked open his bleary eyes, nor any jabbing spike of pain to his head from the slightest noise—that itself was doubly unusual, because mother was quite noisy for her age. He sat up with a groan, clutching at his head and pushing aside empty bottles of mead as he climbed out of his bed.<p>

The sight of the bottles reminded him of why he'd been drinking himself blind the eve before, and dismay welled up again as he thought of his beautiful Camilla, furious and fooled, screaming that she hated him. Of course, this brought a fresh wave of rage as he thought of that _damned _Faendal and the traitorous harpy Dark elf that had wiled he and Camilla so. If it weren't for them, everything would be perfect.

Furious and miserable, Sven grabbed one of the empty bottles and smashed it on the stone floor. He winced sharply at the sound it made, grabbing his head again.

It was about then that he got the horrible feeling something was amiss. He paused in his writhing to actually listen, and frowned when he heard, well, nothing. The shattering glass should have either drawn mother out of bed, or brought her inside to belittle him.

Sven looked around. The house was dark and cold. There was no fire going, the door was still locked, and not a sound was made—no shuffling footsteps or wheezy breaths or curmudgeon grumbling.

Worry settled in his roiling belly. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Either way, he felt awful.

He stood unsteadily and looked over at mother's bed. There was a definite mother-shaped lump there, obscured by the blankets except for her gray-haired head, her back facing him. Sighing and rubbing at his pounding head, he shuffled over and laid a gentle hand on her bony shoulder.

"Wake up, mother. It's morning. There's complaining to be done."

Nothing. He frowned, and shook her a little harder.

"Come on, mother."

Still nothing. His brow now creasing in impatience and worry, he pulled on her shoulder, rolling her over.

"Mother, are yo—" The words—something he was a prodigy with—died on his lips. He stared wide-eyed at the dark, deep red stains soaking the pillow and furs, his terrified gaze slowly moving to his mother's ruby-dyed dress…up, up…to her open, wide, empty eyes, her blood-flecked lips, and her throat…cut open.

"_Mother!_" The man screamed hysterically.

Sven had completely forgotten his aching head.

* * *

><p>When I woke up in the morning, it was to harried voices outside my locked door. Their muffled tones were noticeably urgent and aghast. I smiled.<p>

_Looks like the bard finally got up._ I though cheerily.

I crawled gingerly out of bed, all my muscles aching from yesterday's efforts, and put on my armor, though I took only one dagger with me as I exited the room and locked the door behind me. I looked around the common room.

My drunkard was asleep _under _the table this time, exhaling with gurgling snores. Orgnar was not behind the counter, and Delphine was not sweeping; rather, they were clustered at the front door, speaking with the smith's bitch wife and glancing out the open door. I could just hear faint screaming outside. Though absolutely overjoyed internally, I put on a confused, concerned face and came up to the group. Since I liked Orgnar most out of the three, I addressed him.

"What's happening?" I asked, and he looked at me with somber, hard eyes.

"Hilde's dead. Murdered, they're saying." I brought a hand up to my chest.

"Truly?" He nodded. "What about her son? Er, the bard…Sen?"

"Sven." The bitch-woman interjected. "He's alive. Screaming his head off out there. Woke up my poor girl." Fixing on a wide-eyed frown, a stepped past the group and out onto the inn's porch.

Outside, the early morning frost stilled hung in the air. Across the street at the smith's Alvor stood outside his door, looking grim as he repeatedly pushed his curious daughter back inside the house. At the corner, the troll family—minus the hiding Stormcloak—stood silent and frowning. Gerdur had a young boy, maybe twelve, tucked against her side. In front of the trader, Lucan and Camilla Valerius stood side-by-side, and Faendal was there too, an arm wrapped around the wench's shoulders. Several guards milled about, and everyone was quiet except for two guards attempting to address the caterwauling man on his knees in front of his home, namely the blasted bard.

I covered my mouth with my hand as if in horror to hide the smile I couldn't hold back any longer. Breathing evenly in an effort to calm myself, I schooled my expression again and went down the steps, nodding to Gerdur as I passed. I went up and stood before the steps of the Riverwood Trader, nodding to Faendal and the Valerius siblings as well. Then I turned my attention to their neighbor.

The bard looked horrible. I hadn't seen such a broken man in many years, and I was enjoying every second of it. He was hunched over on his knees on his front porch, his clothes rumpled from sleep and the smell of stale alcohol wafting off of him even at this distance. His hands were covered in blood, and he smeared smudges of it on his face as he clawed at his face, cheeks so much gaunter than they'd been just the day before. His eyes were wild, and he clenched them shut every time he screamed again. The helmeted guards were asking him questions as he shouted something between an explanation, nonsense, and plain old pain.

"She…w-was f-f-fine last…night!" He gasped out. "I-I put her t-to bed…myself!" The guards looked at each other—I don't know _how _with those helms, but they did—and waited for him to go on. "I…woke…up a-and…she…she…was-s…her thr-th-_throat!_"

His head snapped up as he started babbling then, mad eyes darting between the guards he was convincing and everyone else. They passed over where I stood twice before they fixated, trembling, on me, and his grief-mad face contorted into animalistic fury. He surged to his feet and took two quick, stumbling steps, his hand coming up to jab at me accusingly.

"_You!_" He roared, his _lovely singing voice _gone raw and grating. With all eyes now on me, I retreated up the steps, towards people who more-or-less, and very foolishly, believed me. I put on hand out in a placating gesture and another on the hilt of my sheathed dagger. The bard's eyes followed the movement and he screeched again. "It was _you! _You _murdered _her! _You cut her throat!_ Just to spite me, you _murdered _my mother!"

I shook my head slowly. "You're wrong, Sven. Calm down. You're distressed, don—"

"_No! It was you! _You're the new one here! You're the hateful harpy! _You did this! You _took Camilla _and _my mother!" Here, I took the opportunity he'd so nicely given me and looked pleadingly up at the Valerius woman. She swallowed, eyes damp and burning, and stepped forward.

"Sven, stop this. No—" She began, but he cut her off.

"No! It was that _elf _and I want her to _pay! _Guards!" He whirled to them. "You must arrest her!"

Again, the helmet-heads looked at each other, their tense shoulders shrugging and slightly slumped—tired, or weary, perhaps—and they trudged forward.

"What can you say for yourself, traveler?" The closest guard rumbled from behind his full-face helmet, and I curled my lip at him, feigning disbelief and offense.

"I had nothing to do with this." I said lowly, staring evenly at about where I believed his eyes to be. "I've been out all night, hunting with Faendal." I gestured to the stiff Bosmer behind me, and reached into my pack for the dead rabbit I'd acquired in the mine yesterday, extracting it and waving it at the man for emphasis. The armored guard turned his head to Faendal, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

"I..." He began. For a moment, there was a hint of conflict in the tightness of his jaw, but his next words assured me. "It's true. I saw a heard of deer across the river at sundown and decided to track them. I asked Sereosa to come with me. We were out all night, but we lost them, and I had to get back for work." His lie was delivered in a calm monotone, and though his tense form had me wary, the guard seemed to accept the explanation readily.

"Very well, then. Carry on." The man did not ask us to inform him of anything further at a later date, and I assumed it was because not much more than this would be done. Dead was dead, and if one thing had become adamantly clear in my last three days here, it was that Skyrim was an unforgiving place. The guards escorted a spitting Sven away—either to question him or restrain him—and I happily watched the blasted bard go.

When the other folk had gone, a fretting Camilla included, Faendal looked at me flintily, jerked his head in the direction of the mill and began walking. I sighed, crossed my arms, and followed. He didn't speak until we were standing close enough to be river that the swelled current would muffle our words.

"You lied. You had me lie for you!" He hissed without preamble, and I gave him a cool look.

"Indeed, I lied. And I incorporated you. What of it?"

"Did you kill Hilde?" His tone was deathly soft for all the anger in his face and the restrained fury of his posture.

"Perhaps I did. Perhaps I did not. I am no more or less implacable than any other man here. Look around you, hunter." I sneered, waving at the surrounding landscape. "You have lived here for years. You know as well as I—who have been here mere days—that Skyrim is a place of survival. Look at these people. Look at where they live, how they live. They do not trust and they keep a knife and whatever else a fool they may be they are not in this. This land will kill you, and anyone here could as well. Including I."

"I know what it's like! Don't mock me!" He snarled, long, thin fingers clenching into fists. "I swore to be your man, and I upheld that when I lied for you today. No more!" I grinned cruelly.

"Once is enough." I barked with a single, short laugh. "Consider your due paid if you like. I shall."

"So be it." He deflated some then, but his eyes were still aggressive, warning. "Stay away from Camilla and I, harpy. If you harm her, I will kill you."

"Save your threats, hunter." This time I laughed wholly, cackling. "I won't lay a finger on your bitch."

_No promises for her brother or their possessions, of course._

I watched in delight as his face contorted with rage.

"Begone!" He snarled, spinning furiously on his heel and stalking over to the woodpiles, new fury fueling the start of his workday. I shrugged a bit, and retreated back across the bridge, heading for the inn with a smirk firmly curled on my lips.

_Mmmm. Murder, mayhem, and most importantly, fucking with that damned bard. The only way this could get better is with some wine._

That thought firmly in mind, I decided I would spend the day "respectfully mourning" the hamlet's loss in my room. With another bottle of the inn's wine. And an incorrigible grin.

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><p><strong>AN: **Annnd that's a wrap. What did you guys think of Sven's situation? Hilarious? Awesome? Cruel? And what about the fight scenes? I don't write many of those, so I'd love some feedback there, particularly since there'll be so many in the future. Again, thanks for reading, and I hope to get another chapter to you guys real soon. ;)


	5. The Rain, So Bitter

**A/N: **Yay for running away from my problems through Ser's bitchy attitude! It makes faster updates! :D Finally, we're off to Whiteurn...with a few incidents along the way. Hope you guys enjoy!

Many thanks to _**TwistedSystem **_and _**zeengy **_for their reviews! They mean a lot you guys! (Look at you two, turning into regular reviewers. And I promised myself I wouldn't cry...*SOB*) Also, many thanks to everyone who added this to their favs and alerts! You all keep this story coming. :D

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Warning: For implied rape. **Seems kinda silly when you've stuck around through all her language and murder thus far, but hey, sensitive is sensitive, yeah?

* * *

><p>I opened my eyes, blinking slowly, with some difficulty, to dislodge the stickiness that had my eyelids dragging. It was quiet, and dimly dark but for the spluttering candle in a horn-shaped scone on the wall. Nothing moved in my little room, and there were no nearby noises, nor muffled sounds outside my closed door. It was just…undisturbed restfulness. And yet something had woken me. I knew it in my bones, like I knew the prickling not-feeling of watchful eyes or the instinctive foreboding of a nearby threat. <em>Something <em>had woken me. _Voices _had woken me. I could still hear their words in my mind, as if recalling a particularly clear conversation.

"_Amativ Dovahkiin. Amativ brinnah. Mindok fin Dovahgolz, dein fin Dovahgolz…fin Dovahgolz…Dovahkiin!"_

They were familiar words. Overheard chatter? Script in a text? Canticles of old prayer? An illusion, from dream, memory, _created _memory? I threw an arm over my eyes, blanketing my vision again.

_What _are _you? Why do I keep dreaming of you? Have I gone mad, now hearing voices? Has this damned place and its damned fools driven me to insanity already?_

_Why am I so desperate to know? Why do I feel like I'm handicapped every time I awake and forget? Why does this feel like I'm missing a part of me?_

I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a cry. The abnormal surge of emotions—confusion, grief, vulnerability, desperation, and so many more—were a physical force in my lungs, my gut, my chest and throat, choking me.

_Why does it feel like something…_someone_, is calling me? And why does it feel so utterly right, hearing them?_

I tried to growl, and could not for the constricting in my throat. Frustration at my confusion, at these _feelings, _these _questions, _burned under all the rest, simmering and furious. I tried again, even as there was an awful feeling of suffocation, and the strained rumble staggered from my lips. I growled again. The anger eased everything else. Frustration, fury, was a fire that turned all else to ash, and the relief it brought allowed me to breathe. With those breaths came the clarity to contain and cool my fury, and to sort out my thoughts.

I'd had two bottles of wine, and I had been reveling in my victory over the bard. Later in the night, on my third bottle, darker thoughts of my situation had assuaged me as I pondered the bitch troll's direction to Whiterun, the Imperials and Stormcloaks, the golden claw and the barrow, and most of all, the dragon I seemed so fixated on. That being said, the obvious explanation here was that alcohol and my brooding had made for garish dreams and disturbed sleep, as well as all that emotional spew. Yes, that was viable.

_Haven't you thought of these things once before? Don't be foolish. Consider even what you think impossible plausible._

The…_unlikely _explanation was that the moment I stepped foot in Skyrim, something had changed. Did it involve the dragon? Possibly. That assumption, somehow, rang truer than other possibilities. So something had changed in me, it involved the dragon, and it involved these voices…

"_Dovahkiin._" I whispered, testing the one word I could remember had been consistent in all my dreams with the voices thus far. Even as it left my lips, a shiver went down my spine, racking my whole frame, and my heart stalled in my chest before its thudding tempo jumped in a hammering staccato. The air just around me seemed to shiver, too.

I sat up and smacked myself just to make sure I was well and truly awake. The only result being pain and a very much real world, firmly in place as it should be, I supposed I indeed was. Really, it only made me angrier.

With another, frustration-releasing growl, I tore myself out of my blankets and moved to put on my armor. As I picked up the hides, it occurred to me just how…filthy they were, and how filthy I was. Blood splatters and gore were all very nice…but not so once dried and given a day to rot. Moreover, I was covered in dirt and dust and smelled like a brewery. The "rinse" in the mine's lake had only done so much. I needed a proper bath.

I ran my tongue over my teeth and made a face at their slimey, fuzzy feeling. Something to clean them too, then.

I put my armor in my pack and instead dressed in the sets of clothes I'd been given by Gerdur, a simple belted dress of heavy, starched fabric—I couldn't tell if it was wool or burlap, by the gods—dyed a plain blue. The fitted neckline was loose on my narrower frame and exposed a good deal of my shoulders and upper back, and I hated the damned thing with a vengeance.

_Why have dresses and skirts when one could have an equally fine, if not finer, set of breeches and a tunic? Or better yet, armor._

Tugging at the flimsy half-sleeves with distaste, I equipped both my daggers, my bow, and my quiver. If I had to be unarmored, then I was going out armed to the teeth. Sadly, holding my weapons close didn't provide much comfort, and I was left with a prickling, uneasy, agitated sensation crawling under my skin.

With one last petulant growl, I crept out into the common room…To find it full of Nords, either drinking alone in silence, or drinking together and chatting quietly. Nearly the whole hamlet was lined up on the benches: the smith, his bitch wife, Lucan, Camilla, Faendal, Hod, Gerdur, thick-shouldered men whose faces I didn't recognize, garbed in the guard's uniform. Delphine and Orgnar were even among them, one and all sipping mead.

Except for my drunkard. He, as a matter of fact, looked astoundingly sober.

_Well, damn…How about that?_

Maybe this was how Nords mourned: with drinking and company. At least, more than usual. The scene was distinctly different from the Dunmeri ceremonies, full of endless prayer, chant, and ancestral worship, the scattering of ashes by famil—

_No. Think of something else. _

Well, if this alcoholic affair really was how the Nords mourned, then so be it. That didn't really explain my drunk not being so drunk, though.

I really just _had _to know.

I went quietly over to the table where the smelly man sat alone, for once not a cup in sight. He looked up as I sat across from him—after dutifully inspecting the seat for filth or sick—and I noticed his eyes were dark brown and very much bloodshot, looking sunken and well beyond tired. His dark hair was plastered around to the sides of his face with sweat, curling around his ears, and his cheeks were gaunt and drawn. Frankly, he looked awful.

"What happened? Delphine cut you off to save some for the rest?" I asked smartly raising an eyebrow. Those bedraggled eyes just stared at me for awhile before looking away.

"I'm drunk everyday, and I'll have everyday after this to be. Least I can do for Hilde is be sober enough to remember her for a night." My other eyebrow rose.

_Well isn't that…grim._

"You knew her well?" I was rummaging in my bag as I spoke, pushing aside my armor and pretty trifles in search of my last bottle of wine. I found it just as he answered.

"No, but she was one o' us, and now she's dead. That means somethin'." I snorted, stood, and swiped two cups from the bar before coming back and sitting down again.

"If that meant anything," I said lowly as I poured each glass an even dose. "Then none of us would be wearing weapons right now, and thousands of people would still be alive. Wars would be the kind of atrocity that none would commit." I pushed a glass his way, and he eyed it, but didn't take it. I shrugged and sipped from my own. "But it doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all."

_Nothing at all..._

"You're wrong." He murmured, eyes faraway. "It's everything."

"Answer me this, then: why are your people fighting each other? Stormcloaks and Imperials? Because of a vacant throne? Your people kill their brothers and sisters without remorse if it means furthering their goals and beliefs. If you turn on each other, what will other folk do?" I shook my head. "'One of us', eh? If there ever comes a time when that's truth, then maybe it _will _mean something; but now it is empty and foolish."

"Are you letting bitterness or betrayal speak for you?" He countered, his deadened eyes sparking just a bit.

"Neither." I stated, looking him in the eye. "I am speaking the truth, rare as that may be."

"You're a liar, eh? No honor in that."

"Honor doesn't keep you alive. It gets you killed. And I value my life more than I value anything else." My drunk looked like he had much to say—and likely many points to disagree—but he just sighed a heavy sigh and shook his head.

"At least you've got priorities." He mused with a small shrug, and I raised a brow.

"And that's supposed to count for something?"

"Maybe." He gestured to the wine bottle on the table. "It'll get you farther than the bottom of a barrel at least." I snorted.

"I'm more inclined to think it'll get me there anyway." That, at least, got him to grin a little, and I wondered at it.

_You must be more addled than you thought. Practically comforting a man mourning the death of the hag you killed. What irony!_

"Aye. That might be." He hesitated, than reached out and took hold of his cup. He held it up, towards me.

"I'm Byonjal. Most folk call me Embry. Your pick which." I grinned a bit, lifting my drink to tap it against his.

"Sereosa."

Despite my original mission to get clean, I found myself finishing a bottle of wine with, well, my drinking buddy. We alternated between chatting and silence as the night wore on, creeping up into the morning, others patrons taking their leave as they went off to get some sleep before the workday began.

In the end, I went back to bed too, strangely lulled, with my armor in my pack, for the moment forgotten.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, around eight in the morning, I crawled out of bed in my rumpled, borrowed deathtrap of a dress and left my room with my pack in hand.<p>

The inn had returned to normal overnight: Delphine was sweeping, Orgnar was observing, and Byonjal was somewhere deep in his fourth cup if the empty tankards on his table were anything to go by. No one else seemed to be around—likely out making their living to later spend here. I snorted and went up to the bar.

"Hey, Orgnar." I called, and he raised an eyebrow to show he was listening. "You all offer hot baths around here?"

He looked at me then as if I'd ripped out of my clothes, grown fur and a tail, and proclaimed myself a the Lord of Pheasants through a maw of dripping fangs.

"That's a no, I take it?" I asked flatly, a deep scowl already pulling at my features.

_It just figures the Nords wouldn't bother to heat their bathwater despite living in this icy wasteland. Those bastards and their damned cold resistance probably go for a merry dip in the river…assuming they bathe at all._

With what I'd see thus far, that was unlikely. Orgnar was still staring. I growled at him.

"Okay, nevermind. Just give me some salt, some ash from the fires, and the purest alcohol you've got." More staring. I snarled and slapped some septims down on the counter loud enough to make the man flinch. He looked at me oddly, and with slow movements, brought out a small salt pile.

"There's the mead, the ale, and your wine. You pick." He mumbled, and I huffed. None would do me all that well.

"Do you have vinegar, then?" He thought for a moment, then turned and disappeared down the stairs behind the bar. When he came back, he had a small, clear glass bottle covered in dust. He set it in front of me.

"Just take as much…ash as you want." He said, taking the gold and still watching me. Bewildered, it seemed. And curious. I huffed.

"It's for a solution," I explained. "To clean my teeth." He just shook his head.

"Elves." He muttered. "Strangest thing there is, the lot of ya." I snorted at that.

"So says the icebrain." I drawled, and collected my things, stopping briefly to scoop some ashes out of the fire pits under Delphine's scrutinizing gaze, before leaving the inn. I paused to watch the townsfolk mill by, going about their day, and then turned south, heading upriver and intent on what was sure to be a miserable bath.

"By the bloody _shadows_." I half-gasped, half-growled the rarely used expletive. I wasn't too keen on the cultural roots of my people, but sometimes the situation was dire enough for me to resort to their daedric prayer…or curses, as it were.

Such as now. I stood bare but for the skin I was born in, waist-deep in the White River, arms wrapped around me in a futile attempt to hold in any warmth whatsoever. _Damnation_, the water was _freezing._ Well, technically, that was subjective—the Nords probably thought it was little more than lukewarm. But to _me _it was bloody well _freezing_ and that's all that damn well mattered.

Shuddering, I grit my teeth, took a breath, and ducked under the current. As soon as the chill water touched my chest, the cold stole my breath away, and I gasped, bubbles streaming past my lips and water rushing into my mouth to fill their place. I surged back up, spewing mouthfuls of river water and coughing harshly, an immense shiver racking my body as the cold wind battered my exposed, soaking form. It felt like my skin was being stripped from my body…

_Come on! If you can't take a damned dip in the river, then you're worse than the bloody Nords!_

I locked my jaw and dunked my head back under, before coming up again. I waded over to the rock outcropping I'd set my supplies on and swiped a handful of salt from the little wooden bowl. I didn't have the supplies or time to make actual soap, so washing with the abrasive substance would have to do for now.

Doling out some of the salt in each hand, I scrubbed hard at my skin until it was stinging and raw, lifting each leg out one at a time and balancing precariously in the current on the other. When I finished with my body and face, I took some more salt and wet it a little, slathering it over my hair and scalp, and dunked into the water again. My hands scrubbed through my short hair quickly, and I rinsed it out just as my air was running out.

When I came back up, I snatched my smallclothes off the rock and rinsed them out, ringing as much water out of them as I could and then wriggling into them, the wet cloth clinging uncomfortably to my chilled skin. I hauled myself out of the river and onto my rock, just big enough for me to sit there beside my pack. I briefly debated dressing now, but I wanted dry clothing and I would still have to cross the river again. As a buffer, I draped a wolf pelt over my shoulders and set to work.

I put the ashes from the fireplace into the bowl with the rest of the salt, then took out the vinegar and trickled some over the grainy powder until it was about the same texture as wet sand; then, I scooped some up with my fingers—I could be bothered to cut a brush later—and rubbed it over my teeth and around my gums, making a few circuits before I spat and rinsed my mouth out.

_The way Orgnar looked at me, it's a wonder any of these people have teeth…or lovers, for that matter. Never cleaning your mouth or taking a hot bath? Disgusting…and unpleasant. _

Now about as bodily clean as could be at the moment, I withdrew my filthy hide armor and tore up a springy handful of moss from the crevices of the stone. I dipped the moss into the river until it was saturated with water, and then went about wiping down my armor. It wouldn't do to soak the hides—they'd likely be ruined.

I tried to work quickly, eager to be finished before the chill set in my limbs, but it was no use. My fingers were stiff and heavy as I cleaned off the last of my armor and wiped off my blades. With slow, rigid movements, I stuffed everything back into my bag, hefted it above my head, and waded back into the water. I was nearly numb when I climbed up onto the banks, because the water hardly stung my skin at all. I shook the droplets from my legs and pulled my dress over my head, stuffing my feet into a warm pair of fur-lined boots I was grateful I'd had the foresight to bring.

Drained, lethargic, and so cold I could hardly feel my fingers—though I took it as a good sign nothing was black and shriveled—I bent to sling on my pack. I didn't even notice the men in my stupor before it was too late.

"Well, well, what do we have here, men?" A nasally Nordic man's voice pierced the serene, wild quiet of the air. My head jerked up and to the west, my eyes landing on a group of three soldiers, clad in the blues of the Stormcloaks with swords strapped at their sides. All varied in height, but all also had pale complexions, light hair, and either blue or brown eyes. They stood in a loose little triangle, the man speaking at the point, leering down at me with a look I could have recognized half-blind.

_Damnation…_

"A dirty little elf, lost in the snow? Or, maybe not so dirty, after such a nice display…" He continued, and my stiff cheeks managed to pull my lips back and bare my teeth in a snarl.

"Stay back, bitch-born, and you'll keep your pathetic lives." I hissed, and the man glared poisonously.

"You should shut your mouth, elf, and run on home. Your filthy kind aren't welcome in our great Skyrim."

"You are the only filth I see." I spat at him, my hands darting for my bag where I'd thrown my blades during my crossing; but I was too slow.

"Get her!" The man barked, and the two other soldiers rushed forward and grabbed my arms. I bucked, snarling and kicking, twisting my wrists around painfully until I could claw at their restraining hands. They grunted, one losing his grip, and I tore half away before someone backhanded me across the face with a gauntleted hand, hard. I stumbled back, pain blooming across my cheek, and my freed arm was snatched again, both bent behind my back until my shoulders ached. The two soldiers held me up and steady even as I writhed, their officer glaring at me with a twisted sort of grin on his face as he lowered his hand. I snarled at him.

"Keep the bitch still." He ordered, then kicked my pack over and began rifling through the contents that spilled out. He whistled lowly. "Got quite the cache here, don't you, elf-bitch? Armor, weapons, and plenty of gold. This will buy us a lot of mead, eh boys?"

The two grunts restraining me cheered a bit, and their officer straightened up again. He walked in a slow circle around us, eyeing me, before stopping a foot or so away.

"Mead, and women. I haven't had a girl since the war began!" Again, the others agreed. "Now…you may be a dirty elf, but you're a woman still, eh men?" He leaned closer, his dirt-streaked, war-painted sneer all the more pronounced. My stomach churned sickeningly, cold settling into it like stones, heavy and dreaded.

_No…no…They can't! No, no, no, no…_

_But…If I do…I may live…I…I… _

"You want my gold, Nord? You want me to warm your beds and pleasure you? Fine. Just let me live." I spat, the loathing and pleading in my tone true. His sneer turned into a leering grin.

"That's a good little elf." He crowed, reaching out and running rough fingers over the hem of my dress, down over my breast and side. Though it was nothing I hadn't felt before, I shivered, bile rising in my throat. "How's about a taste to start, huh?"

"If you want a kiss," I said lowly. "You'll have to come take it, Nord." The men holding me tightened their grip as the other came closer, grabbing the back of my head and smashing his mouth against mine, teeth clacking, pungent breath invading my lungs. A bony knee came up to lift the skirt of my dress, pushing up between my thighs and trailing a revolting heat. Rage and loathing boiled in my gut and under my skin, seeming to burn my cold flesh. It seared away all my tiredness and resignation and disgust and underlying, panicky fear and left bloodlust in its wake—it cleared my mind, let me think, let me _hate._

And in that moment, I retreated away, into the darkness of my mind. I grounded myself in that darkness, kindling my rage, my bloodlust, and my fury, stoking it and fueling it. In that darkness, I thought of flame, a blazing, consuming fire being held tight, trapped, roaring to be released.

_Know the fires of my wrath, the wrath of my blood._

My eyes snapped open and the flame tore out of me, consuming me, _cloaking _me. It danced and spun around my frame, radiating comforting warmth, and lashed out at the world with all the vengeance and scorn of the bitterest of hearts, seeking something to burn into ash.

It found three Stormcloaks.

They screamed as they died, particularly the two holding me, who were close enough to be swallowed completely. I dropped to the ground as they flailed and charred and screamed, their bodies blackened before they could stumble to the river's edge. The officer on the other hand, was wailing as he clutched at his seared face, the majority of his hair burnt into stinking, smoldered strands and his hands puckered and blistering. He was dunking his smote appendages and head in the cold waters of the river as I came up behind him. His howls cut off quickly into gurgles as my booted foot came down on the back of his neck as hard as it could, shoving his face into the gravel of the submerged shore. He thrashed, his face managing to rear up just once for precious air, but I shoved him back down immediately.

Soon, he fell still, and I kicked his corpse into the waters and watched it bob and drag as the current pushed it along.

"Shadows take you, Nord. May you rot in the deepest reaches of Oblivion." I spat out, whirling around and stuffing all my scattered things back into my pack but for a single healing potion I downed in one swallow. I changed into my damp armor then and there, belting on my weapons and speeding down the road without bothering to check the smoking corpses, my daggers drawn and my body still strung with adrenaline and anger.

I hadn't felt such bitter rage in a long while, and even longer had it been since I used the Dunmeri power of the _Ancestor's Wrath. _It reminded me of something I had been far too quick to forget among the confusion wrought by the dragon and the twins amusement and annoyance by the simple Nords in Riverwood: it was the way of the world to kill me, either slowly with time, or quickly with chaos, bloodshed, or sickness; the only one whose way it was to fight against it for my survival was me.

_And I will not forget again._

* * *

><p>When I stormed back into Riverwood, the citizens kept carefully clear, watching me warily. Evidently, my ferocious mood was clear.<p>

In my mind, I was reevaluating each of them as I passed. Alvor was no longer just the damned smith, he was a man with the strength that came from shaping and hammering steel for years with a family to protect; his wife wasn't a bitch, she was a vapid woman guarding a husband and child from someone she felt threatened by; the bard was a scorned, tormented man with a vendetta against me and nothing more to lose, and weak or not, that made him the most dangerous one here; the Valeriuses were a hardened pair of merchants with coin and spite at their disposal; Faendal was a great archer that knew me as someone murderous never to be trusted; Orgnar was a burly, strong man unafraid of me; Delphine was vigilant, wary, more hawk than woman, with scarred hands and a dagger always in her belt; Hod and Gerdur were millers that had spent years hauling longs and chopping wood that could easily have birthed strength and skill with an axe; Ralof was a soldier and a Stormcloak who was fighting against my very presence in his homeland; and even Byonjal, the drunkard he was, seemed a haunted man with eyes—when sober—that spoke of experience and battles.

Each and every one of them was a threat.

I stopped to speak to no one, going directly for Gerdur's house when I saw she and Hod and their son at the mill. I slammed the door shut behind me and locked it with Gerdur's key. Ralof, sitting at the table, looked up sharply, his blue eyes widening and brow furrowing when he looked at me.

"What happened to you? Fall in the river?" He said lightly, though his face betrayed his wariness.

"No." I said coldly, and watched him stand cautiously at the ice in my voice.

"Something's happened." He stated, though it was more of a question, and I stared balefully at the uniform he wore.

"Aye. Your _comrades _attacked me while I was bathing." He tensed, a question on his lips, but I overrode him. "Typical soldiers looking for drink…and flesh, despite all their preaching about ridding their homeland of _filthy elves._"

My dagger came up, and I examined it, twirling it in front of my face, before I leveled it at him. His own hand went to his axe.

"Tell me, Ralof, what exactly is _your _opinion on elves like me? Your…_intentions?_"

"I've got nothing against elves, cats, or lizards. My only intent is to see the true High King on the throne, and Skyrim given back to her people."

"You expect me to believe your sole reason for fighting is to see Ulfric Stormcloak on the throne?" I snapped, and he glared at me. My eyes darted to his hand, still on the hilt of his axe, then back up.

"Yes. You've seen the Imperial's true colors. I want the bastards out of Skyrim."

"And I've also seen the Stormcloak's _true colors_." I hissed. "Maybe some of you just want to support your political beliefs and back Ulfric, or you've got a personal vendetta against the Imperials; but some of you would kill me for my race. The Imperials" I took a step towards him when his fingers twitched, but he made no other movement. "Are no different. Some more reserved, some treacherous and bloodthirsty. All I see are men, capable of the same action as every other. I have no reason to trust you." That said, I lowered my dagger just to my side and backed up, leaning against the wall.

Ralof stared at me for a long time, his expressions ranging from angered, to pensive, to stoic and half the things in between. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, hand coming away from his weapon; similarly, I sheathed mine, though my fingers lingered there.

"So why are you here?" He asked at last, and I narrowed my eyes.

"I have questions."

"Then ask them."

"Who is Ulfric Stormcloak and what is the Voice, this power he has?"

"Ulfric Stormcloak is the Jarl of Windhelm, and the rightful High King. The Voice…it's a power from the legends of the Dragon Wars. Shouting, it's called. I don't know much about it."

_But would Ulfric? _

"Did Ulfric have anything to do with the dragon?"

"Talos, no. At least, I don't think so—they haven't been seen in Skyrim for an age or more. I think we got very, very lucky at Helgen."

"Yes, we did." I muttered, shifting against the wall.

"But," The Nord continued. "If anyone will know what the coming of the dragon means, it'd be Ulfric." I had to bark a short laugh at that.

"You think _Ulfric_ will know where the _dragon _came form?" I asked skeptically. He almost looked embarrassed.

"Well…no, maybe not. But you don't have anything else to go on, now do you?"

"I might." I said, frowning as I thought of my only other lead I was still reluctant to follow. "Do you know anything about Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"That dark place? It's a crypt of some kind, ancient. Damned creepy is what it is."

"Very helpful. That told me _so much._" I grumbled sarcastically, and he shrugged, unabashed.

"Look, elf, er," He stumbled at my glare. "Sereosa. You might not trust me or like me, but I owe you my life. If you decide to join up with the Stormcloaks, I'll put in a good word for you. You've got your own score to settle with the Empire, now. At least you'd have some friends at your back."

"The perfect place from which to stab me." I said flatly, and then sighed, mostly because he was right: the thought of the chopping block at Helgen stirred far greater loathing than the burnt husks of the Stormcloaks at the river. Still…"Just one more question before I go, Ralof: how do I get to Whiterun from here?"

"It's pretty easy." He answered immediately. "Just cross the bridge going out of town, take the north road. If you need them, the signs will guide you."

"Right." I pushed off the wall, eyeing him. He returned my gaze, and after a moment, I sighed again, turning to the door and unlatching it.

"May the gods watch over your battles, friend." The Nord murmured behind me, and I looked back over my shoulder to nod at him, once.

I pulled open the door and left.

* * *

><p>I stopped by the Riverwood Trader to sell Lucan what I'd gotten from Embershard Mine, namely the weapons I wouldn't be using and the armor too heavy for me, along with all the silver jewelry I'd picked up—the golden pieces, I happily kept for myself.<p>

Next I went over to the Sleeping Giant and bought some more salt and the ingredients to make venison stew from Orgnar—I paid him extra for use of the kitchen, and he obliged willingly after that. No one but me was touching my food from now on. Once done cooking, I went back to what had been my room for the last four days, locked the door, ate my supper, and fell into a light, agitated sleep sitting on the bed, propped up against the wall, my daggers sitting in my lap.

I woke up about five hours later, packed up my things, and left the room. I spared a nod for Orgnar and left Byonjal with two last bottles of ale and a very well placed pat on his shoulder that avoided any contact with stains or filth. Then, I left the inn.

The sun had sunken lower in the sky outside, and clouds were gathering, thick and gray. I'd spent most of the morning with the business at the river, and now it was nearing five in the evening. It might have been better to get more rest, but I wouldn't stay here a moment longer, tense as I was. Even now, with people going about no differently than I'd seen them do these past days, I watched them like I would a pack of wolves.

Tightening the straps of my pack one last time and making sure my sheathed daggers and my bow and quiver were all secure on my person, I set off through the tiny town, across the north bridge Camilla Valerius had shown me—uselessly—my first night here, and onto the north road.

Much the same as I had coming down from Helgen, I stopped to pick flowers and funguses as I found them, particularly now that I had a use for them in alchemy…not that I knew much about it. Still, useful was useful.

The north road ran right along the White River, and I had to wonder just how far it went, and just where it started. Somewhere past Helgen, high in the mountains, surely—it was likely the product of snowmelt. I tore my gaze from the shimmering blue swell and took a cursory look around, spinning in a slow circle even as I ran. Up ahead, a mousy stag stood nibbling flowers under a stone overhang formed by the cliff bordering the roads. I had so many foodstuffs on me after Embershard Mine that I had little use for venison, so I didn't bother trying to hunt it. As I ran closer, the buck's head snapped up, its wide, innocently moony brown eyes fixing on me before it dashed away, pounding through the river and down the banks on the other side.

_Oh, look…_My thoughts seemed to whisper. _It's running away. Like you…_

Whatever had conjured the thought, I squashed it viciously beneath my heel and lopped off its head for good measure; and in warning to any other traitorous little misgivings lurking like cravens in the deepest crevices of my brain.

Shaking my head violently, I rolled my eyes and snorted at my own thoughts. I was being exceptionally more ridiculous than normal, and my riled nerves weren't helping any. If I didn't get my hands on something—or someone, as it where—to vent my frustrations soon, I was going to go mad.

_Unless I already have. In which case, damn the rest! Might as well enjoy insanity. That, or drown myself in the river and be done with it._

I snorted again and kept running, channeling my focus into vigilance and physical exertion and away from any more morbid musings. The gorgeous environment around me was scrutinized, analyzed, and then stored away for future reference with little more attention. My mind had gone into a reclusive place as I moved my arms and legs against the increasing exertion, scaling a steep incline an—

Something hit my cheek.

All at once I snapped back to myself, my blades ripped from their sheaths in a second and my eyes searching wildly for an enemy; but it was only me on the thin mountain path.

The something hit me again, slapping innocuously against my forehead. I looked up, and my eyes widened. It was raining.

I watched as the impenetrable gray swath of clouds, stretching across the sky as far as I could see, released little drops of cool water tumbling down to the earth below, spattering the ground and my upturned face.

_Rain…_

I had never seen rain before. Not like this. An old memory echoed, unbidden, unwanted, and unstoppable in the quiet of my mind…

_A quiet study, spacious and lavished with pretty rugs and shelves of books that seemed to stretch to the ceiling. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, and grayish light streamed through rose-accented windows. A woman with long, dark hair in a scarlet dress sat in a high-backed chair, looking cool and elegant even in repose as she read over a letter. She looked up as little footsteps entered._

"_It's raining again, mother. I got ash in my hair."_

"_I see that, my dear." Mother's high tones murmured good-naturedly. She beckoned. "Come here, let me brush it off. We can't have you looking all dirty, now."_

"_Yes, mother." And gentle, deft fingers swiped over my head, resting there when they were done. The other hand strayed to a necklace, lingering there as bright red eyes looked out the windows._

"_It is my hope Lady Azura grants you with the sight of real rain one day, my dear."_

"_Real rain, mother? I don't understand. Rain is rain, isn't it?"_

"_No, my dear one. The ash that falls from the sky now is not rain. We just call it that, because it falls like rain does."_

"_If rain isn't ash, then what is it, mother? What's it like?" Mother's bright smile, a flash of white teeth, and sad eyes._

"_Rain is water, dear girl—little drops of water. It falls from storm clouds with lightning and thunder and gives the whole land below life."_

"_Water? So rain is like the sky crying?" Laughter, low and sweet._

"_Yes, dear. Rain is the sky crying. In other places, it rains constantly, while in others it rains very little. The people from each of these places are all very different because of it."_

"_That's very sad."_

"_Oh? Why do you say that, dear girl?"_

"_Well because, mother. Rain is the sky crying. The sky must be very sad. And if it's not crying, then it must be very empty, because we have to be happy before we can be sad and cry."_

"_I…see. I hadn't thought of it like that."_

"_We don't have rain, do we mother? We just have ash."_

"_That's true, dear girl. The Red Mountain spits ash even now, and it fills the air until the air can't hold it anymore, and then it falls down to us."_

"_That's sad too, mother."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because. Others are sad when it rains, so they cry. Others are empty, so they have nothing at all. But we have ashes. I do not think we are sad or empty, mother. I think we are dead."_

"_Sereosa! Don't say such things." Those quick fingers darted out to rasp at tiny sides, and there was a squeal. "See there? You can't be ticklish without being very much alive. We are not dead, dear girl. We are like fire, and we shall never die."_

"_Yes, mother."_

"_Now, go wash your face. There's soot on your cheeks and it won't do for Lady Ildayn to see you like that."_

"_Yes, mother." But the little voice calls back, because there's something more to ask. "Mother! Will I ever see the rain?"_

"_I hope so my dear. One day. Now go on! Shoo!"_

…So this was rain. I blinked slowly, feeling dazed, as the droplets began to pour down in earnest, quickly drenching me and smashing my hair tight to my skull. Rivulets ran down my face, dripping off my nose and chin. I stared up at the storm clouds spraying their deluge, and felt bitterness and melancholy heavy in my gut, bringing bile to coat my throat.

"Sadness? Emptiness? Death?" I said quietly, barking a biting, humorless laugh. "How foolish the sight of a child's eyes. Whatever hell you're rotting in, mother, I hope you're enjoying the jest, you bitch."

Shaking myself and stowing my blades before they could garner rust, I climbed the rest of the way up the swell of the hill and was greeted with a twisting, sweeping view of plains below, stretching to the horizon and clashing with mountains far, far away. The road led all the way down a gentle, sloping incline that wound its way around the river and along the cliffs, turning down into a rolling valley of farmlands. And there, like another mountain in its own right, sprouting up out of the plains, was the stonewalled city of Whiterun, its houses and tiers visible from even here.

I would have stood, staring, for a little longer, but I was soaked to the bone, and the cold rain was almost worse than the river had been. It took little effort for me to trot down the downward trail, though the rain made me uneasy about trying to all-out run; thus, I was reaching four-pointed cross of bridges at the very bottom of the slope just as the downpour began to slow.

Pausing there, I looked briefly up each path: the one going straight ahead of me went farther off into the lowlands, disappearing from sight in a bank of mist in the distance; the right led up into the mountains, a steep, curling route that climbed high; and to the left was the road to Whiterun, nestled right up against the White River. I turned down that way. There was a cluster of two large, well-built buildings with steeped, tiled roofs, the signpost at the road hailing the Honningbrew Meadery. Further down the road on the left were two sprawling farms, and just past them on the right, the main gates of the city.

As I came up to one of the farms, my eyes widened. Standing there, towering into the sky, all long, heavy limbs with a squashed face, was a giant. It was dressed in furs—what beast was big enough to make clothing for _that_—and swinging a club about that looked suspiciously like a massive tree branch plucked of all its twigs. And, this being bloody _Skyrim, _there were two Nord warriors battling the damned thing.

One was probably the largest man I'd ever seen, at least half as tall as the giant and with even more muscle, clad in steel and swinging about an immense two-handed sword. He had long, dark brown hair that fell over his ears, black war paint making vicious circles around dark eyes, and a short-trimmed beard. The other was a slight, lithe woman with fiery auburn hair and woodsy eyes I hadn't yet seen on a Nord. She had green and black slashes of paint crossing her face like claw marks, and fired arrow after arrow from her bow.

I stood watching them from not a few feet away, close enough that I backed up a few paces when the giant fell to avoid being crushed. The two sheathed their weapons, talked briefly with a whimpering scamp of a woman in farmer's garb, and then turned to examining their kill…and me. The redheaded woman eyed me with eyes entirely too much like Delphine's, all keen sight and sharpness; but there was something distinctly more wild about this one.

"Well, that's taken care of," She said of the giant, then looked askance at me. "No thanks to you." I snorted.

_Straightforward woman, straightforward response._

"As if you needed another blade." I remarked dryly. "Beasts, the lot of you Nords. Talk to me when you've got a reason to be condescending, giant-slayer."

Oddly enough, the woman's taut lips pulled into a little grin. "You've got fire. I like that. You might make a good Companion." I already didn't much like the sound of that.

"What are the bloody Companions?" I asked, frowning as the man came up beside his friend. He looked fierce, and those hands could likely crack my skull. I resisted the urge to slip away—any warrior that took down a giant and talked about spirit wasn't going to look well upon backing down, and I was in no mood to kindle dislike from these people.

"An outsider, eh? Never heard of the Companions?"

"What was your first clue, the pointed ears, the gray skin, or the brains?"

"The Companions are an order of warriors." She continued unflinchingly, and I rolled my eyes. "We are brothers and sisters in honor."

_Oh, the almighty honor! Marvelous! _

"And, we show up to solve problems…if the coin is good enough."

_Although coin is certainly mightier, haha!_

Still though…survival outweighed coin.

"Stop there." I drawled, holding up a hand. "Fighting _honorably _isn't for me, and neither is glory, or whatever self-righteous principles you put to the whole battle-lust complex. Enjoy yourselves in your foolishness."

The woman certainly seemed affronted, a feral gleam in her eye, but the large man just shrugged and talked about getting back to someplace called Jorrvaskar. I watched them leave, and then busied myself picking some of the potato plants and leeks in neat rows nearby. When I saw that the two were out of sight, I brushed off my hands, went down the road, and made for the gates. There were several little shelters of some kind, just stilts and thatch roofs, and a fair-haired Nord sitting in a horse-drawn carriage, calling that he could give me a ride to any hold for a price. I curled my lip at him and firmly decided I'd only use such services if in dire need.

_Damned carriages…_

The carriage was parked in front of what seemed to be the Whiterun Stables. I eyed the dark-coated horse for sale, noting how it was considerably stockier than any other breed I'd seen before—warhorses, likely suited for this mountainous land.

_You can steal it later, when you've done what you came to do._

The thought lifted my dark mood just a bit. A little reward for coming here and dealing with these fools, I decided. Giving one last look at the horse and the stables, I kept on up to the gates and passed under the first arch of its outer walkways, watching the guards patrolling atop.

As I crossed a drawbridge and came upon the man gate, I was stopped by one of the guards, dressed in the gaudy gold I'd come to recognize as being of Whiterun. I glared at him, going to continue forward, and he blocked my path again.

"Halt, I said!" He barked from behind his helm. "Ctiy's closed with dragons about. Official business only."

_Bite me, you pathetic bastard._

"Get out of my way, fool, or your head will roll." I snarled, pushing past him. "I've got word of the dragon's attack on Helgen." Either suitably intimidated or persuaded, he stammered an affirmative and somehow remembered to _attempt _to do his job by warning me I'd be watched. I snorted as I shoved past the heavy, iron-banded wooden doors and took my first steps into the city.

Whiterun, I was pleased to see, was a fairly fine place. The streets were paved and cobbled as far as I could see, and the buildings on either side of the road I stood on were all proper wood, beams and tiles and steeped, curving roofs displaying a certain styled architecture. It was a quaint, clean place, with waterways and proper walls, just classy enough to meet my tastes—unlike the dingy Helgen or Riverwood—but not so urbane that I was reminded of things I so hated.

To my immediate left was a guardhouse, up ahead on my left what seemed to be both tavern and hunt-shop, blatantly named the Drunken Hunstman, and to my right an armory with an expansive smithy outside. A Nord woman with muscled arms stood talking to a man dressed in Imperial armor, the man arguing that she needed to keep supplying their soldiers with equipment, and she protesting that she couldn't be taking sides, but eventually giving in. I snarled quietly and hurried by.

_Do not lose your temper when you're absolutely surrounded by guards!_

I followed the main path up through town and came to a circular fountain square smelling of sweat and roast meat and steel all at once, lined by stalls with merchants crying their wares, one selling fresh vegetables and meats, another jewelry that I eyed appreciatively, and another mixed blades. Behind them, several full stores, including an apothecary's and a large, fine-looking inn just ahead called the Bannered Mare. I made a note to visit after delivering the troll woman's news.

I passed through the market area and climbed a set of stone steps bordered by shallow, white-stone channels, water flowing down them. At the top of these stairs was another circular square, this one dominated by a massive tree, its bark burnt and withered to white, its claw-like branches twisting up to wound the sky, as it was so wounded. Stone benches and a circular structure of woven, wooden slats ringed the bitter tree, the whole thing bordered my more curved streams of water. If the tree had been whole, the scene would have been lovely enough to lounge under; now however, it only reminded me of an ugly vulnerability and finiteness.

Behind the centerpiece the dead tree made was a temple of some sort, while up to the ride a set of stairs led to a building topped with what appeared to be an upturned boat. As I walked around the tree, I came nearly face-to-face with a priest in hooded robes, standing in front of a monument of an armored man quelling a…._gods-damned dragon _under its foot. The priest roared and shouted with an almost insane fervor about the sanctity of the Nord's man-god Talos and the damnation and sin of those who did not partake of his worship. His hands flailed in the air along with his words, and I dodged a bit of spittle that came flying my way with a disgusted grimace.

_I will put you down, mad priest. _

My lips curled, I practically ran up the elaborate, tiered steps that led up to the city's palace and what would without a doubt be the blasted Jarl's home, Dragonsreach. I scowled into the pretty pools of water below me.

_Everything has to be about the damned dragons, even in name, doesn't it? Blood, fire, and shadows…_

I mounted the last of the steps and passed under an archway, eyeing the stone walls embellished with thick wooden spikes that pointed skyward. The particular bridge in front of me was very nice, wood slats scrubbed spotless and lined with artful arches and columns, bordered by a carved railing. The massive doors of Dragonsreach loomed ahead, and with a decisive grunt, I sped across the bridge and slipped quietly inside.

The door led into the main hall of the palace, its interior lit both by pale sunlight streaming through windows and fires burning in mounted scones. The wood floors were dressed in long, fine rugs woven of soft, sturdy thread and wool, the high-vaulted, cavernous ceilings held up by great wooden pillars rimmed at their bases with carved bands. Guards stood vigilant at either side of me and maids wandered about, carrying out their tasks. Though it was relatively quiet, I could hear voices from somewhere up the steps, further in.

As I padded quietly into the hall, I was presented with more sculpted arches, and carved edges of an upper walkway around the room, the stone walls lined with bookshelves and tapestries. Two long tables lavished in fine plates, cups, pitchers and candlesticks along with piles of food and drink bordered the main floor space, with a large bonfire burning in a pit between them, casting a golden glow on the throne. There were multiple doorways on either side, one on my left leading into one of the most expansive kitchens I'd seen since—

_No. No. Damn it, you will not think about that. Focus!_

I glanced to my right and saw a study of some sort, mostly obscured. The other rooms I could not see from where I stood. Four people stood in this main space, besides the guards and maids behind me and the guards in front of me. A man with boulder-like shoulders and muscled arms, dressed in steel and leather, stood off to the side, watching everything; another man with a upturned nose and balding head, dressed in a fine coat, possibly the softest looking person I'd laid eyes on yet besides the few children I'd seen, and likely a court-goer; a Dunmer woman garbed in thick, dark leathers with flame red hair pulled severely back, standing proud and true and scanning the room with hawk eyes even as she and the finely dressed man spoke urgently to each other and the man on the throne, seemingly arguing.

As for that man himself…the Jarl of Whiterun was a ropey-muscled Nord with long golden hair, a think, neatly-trimmed beard, and imperious eyes, dressed in an extremely rich tunic, garbed with a handful of jewels and crowned by a fine, golden, gem-encrusted circlet, lounging on his seat with all the impose of one who owned power and respect and knew it. Though he appeared at ease in his position, his eyes were tight and his shoulders locked in place with tension, and a longsword was strapped to a fine belt.

As soon as I approached, the Dunner woman turned on me and drew her sword, approaching quickly, at the ready, blocking my path. Her high, narrow cheekbones were accented by the blood red war paint trailing from her glinting amber eyes and curling over her cheeks. When she stopped in front of me, those eyes were vicious, her thin lips a hard line.

"What is the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors." She said sharply, steel in her voice. The sound was odd, a mixture of the high, cultured Dunmeri tones and the heavy, lilting vowels of the Nords. I deducted she must have spent a long while in Skyrim now to have such transitional speech.

Though I was watching her sword arm warily, I lifted my chin and glared right at her, my shoulders thrown back but my posture relaxed, confidant.

"Stay your blade, woman. I bring word of the dragon attack at Helgen, and a plea from Gerdur of Riverwood. The town is in danger." I stated evenly, and the woman narrowed her eyes at me, lips pressing further into a line as she considered this.

"Well, I suppose that explains why the guards let you in. Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak to you personally." She straightened up, and carefully sheathed her sword. "I'm watching you, stranger. Don't try anything."

Putting on a cool, neutral expression, I followed the woman up to the throne, stopping just a foot or so in front of the jarl. If I was so inclined, I could have stabbed him then and there, at such a distance.

_Perhaps at a later date._

The possibility was assuring, an anchor to my dark mood.

After a brief scrutiny, the man deigned to address me. "So. You were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with your own eyes, elf?"

"Sereosa. And yes." I said dryly, letting a bit of bitterly wry humor into my tone. "I had quite the view while the damned Imperials were trying to lop my head off for no good reason." Not completely true really, considering what my survival had brought them thus far, but he didn't need to know that.

"Well, you're certainly forward about expressing your crimes. Ahh, but it's not my concern why they Imperials are executing who." He said with a wave.

"Indeed. Your concern ought to be your survival. The dragon razed Helgen to the ground, and last I saw, it was headed this way." _That _got his attention. He sat up sharply in his seat, cursing.

"By Ysmir!" He swore. "Irileth was right!" He turned to the balding man—his advisor, perhaps—and frowned at him. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a _dragon_?"

"Your walls will be the pot in which it roasts you, Jarl Balgruuf." I remarked with no small amount of gravity. The Jarl's brow furrowed further. The Dunmer woman—Irileth?—stepped in, already planning. Clearly, she was considerably more useful than he.

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon really is lurking in the mountains…"

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as provocation!" The advisor, Proventus, snapped at her. "He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him!"

_Ahh, this is interesting. So little Riverwood wasn't part of Whiterun Hold, but this Falkreath? I needed to learn the political geography of the land, quickly. _

The two were on the verge of squabbling again when the Jarl slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne.

"Enough!" He commanded, a lifetime of authority ringing in his voice. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" He faced the Dunmer. "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl." She said obedidently, fisting a hand over her heart in salute before she stalked away and out of the palace, presumably to find her guardsman.

Proventus, now rendered as useless as he looked, excused himself with the Jarl's encouragement. When the man had gone, he turned his attention back to me.

"Well done. You sought me out, of your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He praised, a look in his eye hinting he expected some kind of reciprocation or some such appreciative response. He got none.

"I want payment." I said flatly. His heavy brows raised a bit, and then he grunted and chuckled, low and short.

"Here. A small token of my esteem." He waved a servant over, murmured something to them and shortly the gangly man returned with a set of studded armor, which was handed to me. Studded _Imperial _armor. I held back a snarl. If it hadn't been better than what I was wearing now, I would have set the damned garb on fire and threw it back in his face. Instead, I just shoved it haphazardly in my bag and nodded coolly at him.

"If there's nothing else…?" I trailed off, waiting impatiently—though with the most patient expression I could muster—for him to dismiss me. Damned propriety.

Of course, however, nothing could go like I wanted it to. Rather than waving me off as I had expected, the jarl looked me over appraisingly, his sure gaze lingering on my weapons and armor and the slim scars on my hands and face.

_Damnation and shadow._

"There…is another thing you could do for me. Suitable of someone of your…_particular_ _talents, _perhaps." He hedged, and though his tone indicated it was entirely a plea, I knew better. Far better.

"Whatever you need, my Jarl?" The words slid from my tongue like sugar. Or sick. More the latter, really. It didn't matter, though; as soon as I was instructed and free to leave, I would disappear. Perhaps go to Windhelm. Slaughtering Imperials seemed a decent distraction.

"Come, let's find Farengar, my court wizard." The jarl said, finally standing. "He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons…and rumors of dragons."

_Bloody fucking gods-be-damned. The dragons, the dragons! Why, _why, _the dragons? Damn it all, whatever has been messing with me must damn well have to do with the damned dragons if it's coming up _again!

I stewed, silent but furious and gnashing my teeth as the damned fool led me over to the room I'd assumed a sort of study. In the room were several tables littered with notes and papers, a small, torn map spread on one while a much larger map of Skyrim stood on a stand off to the side. A robe, hooded man with a long, narrow chin milled about behind the tables, muttering to himself. Behind him were two more doorways and both a small alchemy lab and an enchanting table pushed up against the wall. He snapped to attention only when the jarl began speaking.

"Farengar. Farengar!" The robed man looked up from his work. "Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill her in with all the details." Though I could not make out the wizard's eyes as his head turned in my direction, I got the impression he was looking right down that narrow nose of his at me.

_Bastard._

"So the jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" He mumbled to himself, almost questioningly, before he focused again with a little ruffle. "Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons."

"He just stated as much." I commented, but he seemed not to quite hear.

"Yes…I could use someone to fetch something for me." I bristled at the word 'fetch', but he continued rambling on, and I firmly decided the stuck-up bastard was addled. "Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

Perhaps he wasn't addled after all. Perhaps the prat just liked to listen to himself talk. Yes, that seemed fitting.

"You want me to go running off into some damned ruin on a wild chase?" I hissed, my temper flaring up despite all my attempts to repress it for appearances. "Just where in Oblivion do you want me to go, mage? And what bloody for?"

"Do calm down, miss. It doesn't become you to belittle your betters."

My hands twitched towards my daggers.

_Dragons. Information. Focus. Focus!_

"I have, ahh…_learned_ of a certain stone said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow—a "Dragonstone", said to contain a map of dragon burial sites." He explained, and though he continued speaking, I was far from listening, my mind already cracking.

_Dragonstone. Dovahgloz. Mindok fin Dovahgloz,dein fin Dovahgloz…Dovahkiin._

The words from my dreams this morning echoed with shattering clarity in my mind, and I knew them for what they were.

_Know the Dragonstone, guard the Dragonstone._

Bleak Falls Barrow. The Dragonstone was in Bleak Falls Barrow. The dragon itself had flown over the barrow. The mysterious thief had stolen only the claw and gone _to the barrow. _It all led to the damned barrow.

I surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of the wizard's robes, jerking him hard until his hooded face nearly slammed into shadowed eyes went wide.

"Tell me everything you know about Bleak Falls Barrow." I hissed at him, teeth bared. He trembled the smallest bit.

"It's an ancient Nordic tomb, possibly from before the Dragon Wars. They buried their dead there. It's just up the mountain, near Riverwood! Just off the north road!" He stammered rapidly. "Please, put me down."

I shoved him into one of his tables with a growl, rounding on the jarl and snapping that I was going. Then, I stalked out of the room, down the steps, and out of Dragonsreach.

_Bleak Falls Barrow._

It had not been coincidence. My doubtful suspicions had been correct all along. My answers were in Bleak Falls Barrow. And no one was going to stop me from getting them.

_Dovahgloz…!_

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><p><strong>Translations: <strong>

_"_Amativ Dovahkiin. Amativ brinnah. Mindok fin Dovahgolz, dein fin Dovahgolz…fin_ Dovahgolz…Dovahkiin!":_

"Onward, Dragonborn. Onward, sister. Know the Dragonstone, guard the Dragonstone...the Dragonstone...Dragonborn!"

/point at self XD I'm slowly learning the dragon language. So many words...I'm also trying to teach myself the Skyrim theme, but the pronounciation is giving me hell. Anyone here know the dragon language version by heart? LOL. /nerds unite


	6. Bleak Falls Barrow

**A/N: **Mostly action in this chapter, and fail editing on my part because I'm majorly distracted by my new car: 'tis my first! :D A gorgeous bright yellow VW Bug I'm naming Daisy, lmao. Anyways, be happy for our beta here, the fabulous_** eye of the**_** divine**, 'cause she's responsible for making this chapter legible, lol. LOVE YOU HUN. THANKS AS ALWAYS.

I would like to thank _**zeengy, Z LOT847, Guest** _(Thank you so much for your comments, hun. They meant a lot! Log in next time or something so I can virtually hug you properly!), _**TwistedSystem,**_and **_Sharkbite1000_ **for their reviews! And many thanks to everyone who's added this to their alerts and favorties! It all means so much! The story's gotten over 3,000 views! Consider my mind blown! X'D

Hope everyone enjoys this chapter.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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><p>Despite all my urgency, I couldn't do this foolishly. Bleak Falls Barrow had too much riding on it, and the gods only knew what was inside. It could just be bandits; but it could be something more. Perhaps even the dragon itself was resting there. I needed to be ready, and rested.<p>

The sun made a last, fleeting appearance as it slipped below the horizon, ducking beneath the edge of the clouds that still stretched across the sky, painting a brief burst of gold and orange amid the endless gray. I watched the scene as I made my way down from Dragonsreach and what a rather infuriating, pompous Redguard who called himself Nazeem referred to as the Cloud District and into what was apparently the Wind District, the main residential area of the city. I growled at the arse—the blasted nerve, insulting my status with every other breath, the bastard!—as I slipped away towards the Bannered Mare, watching him begin to condescendingly chat up a merchant woman as the doors slipped closed behind me.

Inside the Bannered Mare it was warm and boisterous, filled with guests of all kinds, though not terribly noisy aside from the damn bard strumming by the fire, playing a welcoming, cheerful yet sleepy tavern tune. Several benches bordered said fire, and men in heavy armor as well as plainclothes warmed themselves in front of it, cradling plates of roast meat and potatoes, or mugs of mead. Along the wall were small tables, some set with just one empty chair, some occupied by multiple pieces of furniture but sitting only a single person. Off to the left was a doorway that led to the kitchen, if the salivating smells were any indication, and around the room a pretty, short-haired Redguard woman dodged and weaved behind the bar and amidst the patrons, serving drinks and food and smacking away any grabbing hands with enough force to bruise. To my right was a bar behind which stood a woman with long brown hair, pulled back from her face, and thin, tired, yet merry charcoal gray eyes, talking amiably to anyone who came up to her.

Eyeing the other costumers—most specifically the bard—grumpily, I touched my daggers once and approached the counter and sat at the bar. Much like the Sleeping Giant Inn, the bard's playing agitated my nerves to no end; fortunately for his life, though, he took frequent breaks to talk the ear off some comely woman seated on one of the benches nearby. I made an effort to ignore the music and turned to the innkeeper.

"Hey. Welcome to the Bannered Mare. I'm Hulda, and I own this inn." She said kindly, not at all perturbed by my wary looks. Rather, she waved to the Redguard girl, Saadia, calling for her to bring a drink. The lovely lass came and took my order for a bottle of wine, which she left in front of me, collecting the payment before hurrying off to answer another call. I turned back to Hulda.

"Can I get a plate of whatever's for dinner and a room for the night, please?" I asked politely, a note of weariness creeping into my voice. Now that I was out of Riverwood, I didn't feel the immediate need to act as if I was in danger of a lynching, and so I allowed myself a bit of laxity; though I still shot glances over my shoulder at the other patrons every so often. None were really paying me much mind, but I was more than willing to keep an eye on them.

"Sure thing." The woman replied with a grin. "Let me get that for you, and I'll show you to your room when you're done." Evidently, this Hulda was considerably chummier than Orgnar. I didn't know whether to be bothered or not—it remained to be seen.

I was given my food, exchanged some septims for it and my room, and left to eat my meal and sip my drink in short silence. I took a moment to inspect the food for any recognizable scents of poison, going so far as to taste a piece experimentally. I didn't detect anything, and besides, I'd had yet to do anything in Whiterun to anger anyone. With a little shrug, I went on with my supper. Though somewhat bland with just salt and garlic, the meat and potatoes were hot and filing and settling comfortably in my growling stomach. The smack of wine pooled just a bit of warmth in my gut, and my tired limbs unwound, my back slouching. My mind was just fogged, all my revelations from just an hour earlier buzzing about so quickly I couldn't grasp them rightly, and all my emotional highs and lows having drained me.

When I finished eating, I asked Hulda to take me to my room, and she came out from behind her bar to navigate around inebriated men, dressed in full armor and dancing about without a care in the world. She led me up a thin flight of ladder-like stairs in the northwestern corner of the common room and into a large, cozy bedroom with a double bed, adorned with two thick pillows and a heavy, green-dyed woolen quilt. She bid me good night and I closed the doors behind her, only needing to fiddle with the latch a bit to lock it; then, I took stock of the room.

There was a nightstand in the right corner between the wall and the bed, and a nightstand similarly placed next to a large, open doorway on the left. A dresser was pushed up against the far wall of the room. Out on the landing, as it were, was a cupboard and two chairs angled towards each other; though I didn't much care for such an exposed little balcony area, from what I could see, it would be near-inaccessible from the main room below. Besides, there wasn't much I could do about it anyway—no doors and all that.

Disarming myself of all my weapons, I stowed a typical dagger under one of the pillows and placed another on the nightstand on the right. I took off my armor and slipped into my blue dress, storing the rest of my belongings in the dresser and climbing into the bed—after briefly checking underneath it to find nothing but the average dirt and dust. The bedding was soft and warm, and combined with my previous, disturbed few hours of sleep and the day's events, I was quick off into the realm of dreams.

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><p>This time, when I jerked awake in the middle of the night, it was not to the booming-quiet many-voices speaking to me in insistent tongues, informing me or taunting me. This time, as I grasped at my head, my ears, teeth clenched in pain, the only thing thrumming through my head was single phrase, pounding like a drum, terribly loud and mercilessly shouted.<p>

"_FIN DOVAHGLOZ!_"

The voices yelled in my mind, demanding and urgent, the two words having wrenched me from sleep and resounding harshly in my ears even now, sending a quake down my spine and snapping me awake. My hands slid from where they were clapped over my ears to dig into my shoulders, my arms winding tightly around my body.

"_Dovahgloz_." I whispered, tucking my chin against my neck and burrowing deeper into the coverlets, twisting onto my side; but it was no use. Once again, the voices had stolen all warmth from my body and replaced it with a dire urgency I could not ignore. Whatever the Dragonstone was, someone or something could not spare another moment without it.

With a shudder and a growl, I flung back the blankets and rolled out of bed. I dressed in my armor by candlelight, tying the strings on my pack and tossing it over my shoulders. I carefully unbolted the door and snuck down into the common room, where it was silent but for the snores of overnight patrons and the occasional drunk. Neither Hulga nor her girl Saalia was anywhere to be seen. I snatched a roll of bread from behind the counter, once sure no one was looking, and tore into it as I slipped out the door.

Outside, it was darker than I'd seen it yet, Masser and Secunda but a dim glow hidden behind the still-present cloud cover. A few guards patrolled the market square, and I nodded to them as I passed, looking for the entire world like the harried traveler I was.

Whiterun was a considerably different place in the dark of night. Deserted but for the gold-clad guardsmen and women, no hustle or bustle that came with the flow of trade, work, and travel this central city saw. The streets were shadowed, lit by the torches occasionally mounted on stone walls or carried in hand. If I hadn't been on a mission, I would have stopped to pick the locks on Warmaiden's or the Drunken Huntsman and raid their stores.

_But alas…even sleep is secondary. Take heart, though. You'll have your answers soon, and then you can leave this dragon business behind for something more entertaining…_

Despite my rude awakening and the grimly alert tension in my body, the thought made me smile. It would be good to have this behind me and done with…once it was actually _done with, _at least. With a heavy sigh, I passed a final guard and pulled open the gates of Whiterun, going out into the wilderness.

The plains, like the city itself, appeared different under such a thick, black cloak; however, I preferred it. In the night, it was always much simpler to slip into the shadows, slip into the darkness, where you would not be seen before it was too late…where you could never be found, were you to hide well enough. Even now, with so little illumination, the night held a far greater beauty than the day, something born of the mysterious, ever unknown and the promise of a whole new turn of life emerging from their daylight dens.

With another glance around, I set off along the flame-flickered road, back down the very same path I'd come up a few hours prior. Soon, some of the hulking torch-lit shapes resolved themselves into the stables I'd passed earlier, and a wicked grin stretched my lips when I saw the warhorse was still tied in its stall, just waiting to be bought.

Or taken, as it were.

Sliding easily into a crouch, I crept up to the beast's side and stroked its flank. It gave a little, snorting huff, but otherwise did not respond overtly as I pulled some tack from the shelves on either side of it, flinging saddlebags and saddle over its back and tightening the straps suitably. It fought the bit and harness only slightly, quickly appeased by an offering of apples. Once it finished chewing its treat, I pulled the bridle over its head, unhooked its lead from the bracket on the wall, took the reins in hand, and with one last look about for any stable hands, flung myself up into the saddle.

_It's a good thing you can ride. Walking all over this damned land would have been deathly._

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tapped my heels against the mare's—for it was indeed a mare—flanks, turned her gingerly in her stall, and walking her out onto the road. As I passed directly by a hanging lantern on a lamppost, I saw the mare's hide shone a warm, chestnut brown where I'd once thought it a dark walnut or black in the low light of both the day and night. I decided to name my new mount Chestnut. Rather unimaginative, but it fit, and I'd never been creative with names despite my skill for memorization of them.

"On, Chestnut, girl." I murmured, leaning toward a tall, tufted ear, running my hand through a shaggy ebony mane, and tapped her flanks again. She broke into a cantor, quick but steady, a rapid, bouncing rhythm, and then we were speeding past the farms where I'd met the fool Companions, past the Honningbrew Meadery, and back up the North road, now heading south, back towards Riverwood.

Back towards Riverwood…and towards Bleak Falls Barrow, and all the answers the tomb would surely contain.

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><p>When Chestnut and I arrived at the little fork in the road across the bridge from Riverwood, the clouds cleared just for a moment, a little gap in the sky that revealed the glowing, reddish violet form of Masser, its rosy light illuminating the path to the barrow for a handful of seconds. It disappeared under the clouds' hulking forms a scant minute later. Though not extremely superstitious, I took it as a sign from Azura, Lady of the Night Skies, as she were. Whether good or ill remained to be seen…<p>

Snorting, I cast a cursory glance over at the blasted hamlet, but saw no figures other than the recently arrived detachment of Whiterun guards and a few loitering shapes; perhaps Byonjal, or the smith, if their half-hidden frames were any real indication. Satisfied I wouldn't be seen, I turned Chestnut up the slope and leaned forward in the saddle as she began a plodding climb.

I took my mare up the winding path, moving carefully in the darkness, and was soon hindered by yet another obstacle as I came up the ridge and beheld a crumbling watchtower. Namely, snow. The little storm came out of nowhere in our passing of some elevation threshold to the next, white crystals whipped up in a blustery, though not overpowering wind, swirling with frost. I grit my teeth to hold back a shout of frustration as the cold bit into the few slices of exposed skin between the gaps in my hide armor. I dismounted Chestnut and ducked behind her broad flank, sheltering as best I could from the frozen eddies.

_By the damned Shadows! It's only mid-Last Seed. Why, _why _is there bloody _snow_ in the later summer? Gods _damn _this blasted land._

I pulled a wolf pelt form my saddlebags and slung it over my head and shoulders like a hooded cape. The fit was poor and didn't cover too much, but the fur kept the stinging, clinging flakes of snow from obstructing my vision quite so dramatically.

Squinting ahead of me, I could just make out movement across the way: two figures, one slimmer, both bulked up by fur armor, moved about in front of the tower. Bandits, most likely. I sent a quick prayer to Azura that I wasn't misjudging the shapes and wasn't about to shot at bloody trolls; then, I withdrew my bow and knocked a steel arrow, the tip so cold to the touch it burned. My skin pricked and stung with the chill as my bare fingertips wrapped around my bowstring, but I put it from my mind.

I slipped into a crouch and crept forward as much as I dared, and then drew back my bowstring until the arrow's fletching brushed past my ear. I aimed carefully, trying to account for both the wind and the momentum the shot would lose as it flew, centering the arrowhead just a bit above my target's head and to the right. I breathed out, emptying my lungs of air, and in that moment of stillness, grit my teeth and fired.

Though it wobbled precariously, the thinner figure—a woman, perhaps—began walking once more just then, and her steps took her right into the path of the arrow. It embedded itself in her skull, knocking her to the side and onto the ground. Her companion, likely a man, gave a shout muffled in the wind, and I fired two more shots, both missing him. He seemed about to discover my position, whirling around towards me, when my third shot, and likely my lucky one, managed to hit him in his left pectoral, over his heart. He fell, and I assumed he hadn't been wearing a chest piece. Frankly, this baffled me more than anything else, even if I was grateful for how simple felling him had been.

_How could you go bare-chested in this cold? Damnation. _

Wary of any more bandits, I hooked Chestnut's reigns over a thin, limp, snow-covered pine branch and crept over the jutting rocks and snow, up to the shallow cliff sides near the tower.

I almost stumbled over one of the still-warm bodies, but managed to recover my bearings. It was the woman's, I found, and I took gold, her furs, and a steel dagger from her corpse. I replaced the sharpened iron in my right hand with said dagger, pocketed the money, and cut up her fur cuirass to line my boots, gloves, and armor. It was a sloppy job, as I worked quickly in the snow, constantly swiveling my head away form my work to search for any threats; but it was well-enough done, and I was relieved to be warmer because of it.

With fur-softened steps, I padded over to about where I thought the other body and fallen, and, after some searching, found I had indeed been right and the man—an Orsimer—wore no breastplate, or even a shirt. I shuddered at the thought and took his gold before carefully approaching the tower. I crept into the stone arch that served as the doorway, instantly glad to be out of the wind, and snuck up the ramp to my immediate right. I could hear creaking floorboards as footsteps paced above me, and took care in moving silently as I ascended the tower, going briefly out in the night wind once again as I followed the ramps. In the next level up, I found one last bandit, a Nord in more furs, carrying a bow. Rather than use anymore arrows, I crept up behind him when his back was turned and reached around to cut his neck, slicing open an artery that would have him dead in moments. He gurgled, hands sliding over his already blood drenched throat, and toppled over, twitching. His wet, bubbling gasps and chokes were dimmed even to my ears, close as I stood to him, in the whirling wind outside.

I stepped over the dying man and went up the last ramp, which led up to another room. Two more flights of rickety stairs led to the top of the tower. I was once more buffeted by wind, precarious now, up so high, but was rewarded with a small chest that held many septims, a steel short sword, and a gold necklace set with amethyst. I took it all greedily and retreated back down the stairs where the last bandit now lay dead in a great—and still growing—pool of scarlet, little dribbles seeping towards the edge of the walkway, dripping down. I took his gold and the arrows in his quiver and went back down the tower, scrounging up a few health potions and coin purses as I went.

Moving back into the snowstorm, small though it likely was by Skyrim's standards, was a pain. I half-snuck, half-trudged forward over the icy stones, heading for the only clear path present atop the hill with the assumption that it must lead to the barrow.

I was correct. When I rounded the corner, I gasped. Even in the dim light and obscuring snow, I could still clearly see the ruinous, carved stone structure before me. Great, gray, nearly black stone arches and columns and half-spires rose from the ground, jutting up in an intricate pattern now crumbled and disarrayed. Tall flights of stone steps climbed up into the ruins, and I marveled at it all as I passed under pointed arches tipped with strange carvings that looked remarkably like the heads of some great, predatory birds…Or, possibly, dragons.

_Damnation. _

I was thankful, however, that I'd had the mind to continue sneaking as I went, because before I knew it I was up the last step on the first flight of stairs and nearly walking right over a bandit woman asleep in her bedroll. I stumbled to a halt, holding my breath, but she did not wake. I crouched down and quickly slit her throat. She jerked, but otherwise, would never wake again. A quiver brimming with arrows lay beside her, and I took them happily.

Voices chatted nearby, up more stairs to my left, closer to the immense tomb…or temple, as it appeared. Male voices, sharing a bawdy rhyme, perhaps to fend off the chill. I took up my bow once more and aimed for one of their shadowy shapes, firing, and knocking another bolt immediately thereafter to fire at the second. One fell over dead, though I didn't stop to see where I'd struck him, and the other swore loudly and rushed me, one injured arm limp at his side. I yanked up my dagger and slashed at his good hand, trying to reach me with a knife of his own. Our blades clanged, and I growled viciously, dropping my bow and swinging at him with my open fist. The unexpected punch connected solidly with the dark-skinned man's throat, and he coughed, choking, reeling. I took the advantage and snatched my other dagger from its sheath, twirling it upright in my hand and stabbing up at his jaw. The blade sunk in, pushing through the underside of his jaw and up through his mouth, and the man fell as I yanked the steel free.

I spun in a circle, searching for anyone else, but could make out no humanoid figures, just the looming stone shapes. Shrugging my shoulders, I stooped down to search the man's body and retrieve my bow. He had little of value on him, not even septims, and I kicked the corpse aside with a frown out of spite.

A rather interesting arrow going right up under his arm, I discovered, had downed the other man, piercing the soft flesh of his armpit, and, it seemed, his heart. I quirked a brow at that and searched him. He too had held a bow and arrow like the sleeping woman, and I took his arrows and a strange metal ingot of a grayish green. I didn't recognize the metal; perhaps I'd ask after it with the smith, if not in Riverwood, then in Whiterun.

Seemingly nothing left to be done here, I padded up wide, shallow stone steps and mounted a thin landing dominated by a thick pillar covered in layers of frost, old and new. Behind said pillar was the wall of the temple, and set in it a heavy metal door, iron maybe, intricately carved with strange shapes and patterns I couldn't identify. I grasped the burning, icy cold metal rings that served as knockers and pulled the half-frozen door open with a low groan. Dim light flickered somewhere inside, and a gust of musty air blossomed in my face as I stepped into the dank, echoing dark and slowly let the door thud closed after me.

Inside, the chamber I was first presented with was a wide space of crumbled, mossy rock and pillars, pale, whitish-gray light streaming through cracked holes in the ceiling and casting the place in a ghostly fog. As I stepped further into the room, I noticed the corpses of large, rat-like creatures littering the floor, all of them neatly cut. I decided these must be the land's fabled Skeevers and tore the tails from their corpses in the hope of use as reagents, or, if desperate, food. That done, I crept over tumbled stones and around pillars, headed for the glow of firelight I had spotted emanating from amid the rocks.

There were two more bandits talking urgently, a Nord man and woman, their heads close together. By the sound of their conversation, their little band hadn't held together so good, and now they were at a loss. The corpse of another bandit, a Breton it seemed, slumped against an altar-like stone with an axe in his chest, duly reinforced these statements . I was delighted to find an onyx and copper circlet on his body, though it was also slightly disturbing. If they hadn't killed him for what he'd had on him, they'd killed him either in betrayal, or for betraying them.

_Evidently, these fools couldn't keep it together. Whoever was leading them, if anyone, was an idiot._

Focusing on the remaining, living bandits, I pulled out my bow and knocked an arrow once more. The air was stale and still as death in here but for an occasional draft from the ceiling, and the room fairly well lit by flame, so it was considerably easier to get a good shot. My arrow stayed true and punched right through the man's thin studded armor, piercing his lungs, while the next followed through and struck him in the eye. The woman was running at me with her iron mace drawn, and rather than try to shot again, I dove at her, snagging my arms around her lean waist and bowling her over. Her side hit the ground with a hard thud, and her breath left her body in a pained rush of a gasp. I was on her then, bearing down on her back and looping my bow over her neck so that the pliant hardwood arch pressed into her windpipe. I put a boot between her shoulder blades, gripped my bow with both hands, and yanked back, crushing the air from her throat.

Her hands scrambled to find purchase under the wood, her legs thrashing as she tried to get them under her to buck me off, but I pressed my other knee too into the small of her back, holding her down. The shift in position adjusted my center of balance, and it became a simple thing to maneuver out of her reach while increasing the pressure on her windpipe. Her chest heaved, her gasps going mute as her eyes bulged and her thrashing slowed, and soon enough she slumped over, silent and still, little spasms still running down her panicked muscles and nerves despite her unmoving breast.

I extracted my bow from around her head, her ragged, greasy hair snagging a bit around the bowstring, and stood, shaking out my limbs. I rolled my shoulders and bent back over to look for spoils, searching both bodies, though for bandits, they had little of worth on them but a handful of septims collectively. Hoping for better, I searched their little camp, composed of a woodpile, a campfire with a bare spit hung over it, two bedrolls, and a wooden chest that looked slightly more promising.

I approached the chest to find it locked, though it was shoddy at best, a novice lock. I pulled out an extremely dull shiv and a set of lockpicks from one of my belt pouches and set to work, quickly feeling the inner mechanism give. It only took me a few seconds and the one lockpick, for which I was pleased. I pushed open the lid to find a medium-sized pouch of gold and a single emerald, glittering in the lonely depths. I grinned a bit and snatched the pretty, shiny thing up, holding it up to the firelight and cocking my head as I stared, mesmerized, at the little spots of color cast on the floor, refracted by the small flames from the fire.

It took me a moment or two to tear myself from the shiny spectacle, and I shook my head to clear it as I pocketed the gem and septims. A last glance around this first chamber revealed little else of value, and so, pressing my lips into a thin line, I resumed my crouch and started down the cobweb-lined, circular tunnel behind me, descending down dusty steps and further into the temple.

My lips curled back in disgust as I pushed through enormous webs, thin but large enough to cover the space from floor to ceiling so that they could not be avoided; surely, webs like these indicated spiders, likely of the Frostbite variety, and I was none too pleased. Still, I'd been mired in worse substances in my life, and gross or no, I darted through them and on my way—webs so thin didn't warrant any more effort.

The next room I came to was empty save for a blazing brazier and two long, carved stone altars. Atop each sat an ancient looking burial urn made of a reddish stone, perhaps clay, and I stuck my hand inside experimentally to see if the old Nords kept their precious possessions in amongst their ashes like some other cultures were known to. I was pleased to find that this guess proved profitable as my hand came away dusted in the dead gray particles, my fingers wrapped around a dirty handful of gold coins—the second urn gave up an amethyst piece—all of which I brushed off, examined, and then tucked them greedily and happily away.

I moved down the hall to find the floors and walls covered in layers of thick, woody vines, wider than my forearms. I had to navigate down the following passageways carefully in order to avoid tripping on any of the ropey vegetation or crumbling stone. As I progressed further around the curving turns, the ruin became more apparent, broken supports and pillars and statues of sorts littering the floors in pieces, overgrown by plants, or leaning against the walls, littered with cracks.

An eerie howl carried through the tunnels, the draft I'd felt early revealing itself in a strange, gently gusting breeze that moaned through the dilapidated spaces. I shivered, walking past another carved, tall brazier, and wondering once more what all the faded spirals and carvings on the walls meant, if anything.

Further down the hall I found some old shelves I wasn't quite sure were made of wood or rock. They certainly appeared to be wood, but I doubted the material could last if it truly dated back to the ancient times. Whatever they were made of, they were surprisingly fine, and even had some interesting things piled on them: potions to restore health and magicka, and long bundles of linen wrapping. I took it all, even the old fabrics, in hopes of using them for bandages, repairing clothes, or improvising rope if need be.

I continued onward, going down again, and came to a doublewide doorway, divided by another arching column. Half of it was completely blocked by a mostly collapsed wall on the right, but the left side was still open. I went through there, past more vines and rocks, only to stop short when I saw a bandit further down the tunnel, standing in a doorway, torch in hand. I drew out my bow, intending to shoot him down, but he moved out of sight.

_Damnation._

Cursing silently, I stowed my bow and took out my daggers instead, slipping down the crumbling stairs after him, mindful of where I placed my feet among the rubble. It turned out to be unnecessary, though. Just as I came into the doorway, I watched the man pull a lever in the center of the room ahead, presumably to open the gate barring his way, and was immediately riddled full of old, rotting arrows with deteriorated fletching, trailing a greenish haze behind them I could only assume was poison of some kind. The man crumpled to the ground, dead before I could blink.

I swallowed audibly.

_Bloody fucking…how am I getting past _that? _Shadows and Oblivion..._

Supremely cautious, I crept slowly, gently into the room, afraid of setting off some other kind of mechanism that would introduce me to a similarly painful, quick death.

The entire room was made up of the brownish stone and earth, carved, lich-covered steps, walkways, and gates surrounding me. To my right, a perpendicular stairway led up to a thin stone overhang, carved into the walls of which were strange figures, looking like heads with gaping mouths, metal plates with stone carvings of animals set between their rock jaws.

On the far right, it appeared to be a snake, and on the far left, a fish of sorts; however, a piece seemed to be missing, the spot crumbled as if it had fallen away. My eyes trailed downward: there, on the floor below the walkway, lay the fallen face, most of it smashed to bits. The image though, was still visible, another curving serpent.

I looked to my left. Along the wall, three alcoves were carved out of the stone, and inside them, pillars that appeared to be set on a turning mechanism, the same metal-and-stone animal plagues cut into them. I glanced between the three short, turning pillars, the carved faces, the lever, the metal gate blocking my way, and the very much dead bandit. With a pessimistic frown, I went over to the gate and tried to lift it, but it was no good. I looked around the room again.

_Oblivion…it's to be a puzzle then, is it? Gods and Shadows, please let me be right about this._

Steeling myself with a breath through clenched teeth, I padded gingerly over to the pillars and gave one of them—now displaying a swooping bird—an experimental push. With an aching groan and a shower of dust and pebbles, the mechanism inched around, stalled a second…and then swung into place with a smooth rumble. It was as if after all this time it was still perfectly intact. The single rotation brought the bird—an eagle? A hawk? Hmm—around to the twisting snake, and I stole another bracing breath as I moved on to the next one, the fish. One spin to the bird, and another to the snake. That was two. I moved to the third and final pillar, showing the bird again, and spun it twice so that it reached the fish. That done, I took a step back and sighed heavily.

_There, now. These match the ones above the door… By blood and shadow…all right. Let's do this…_

With an odd surge of adrenaline I generally associated with my gambling tendencies, I strode over to the lever that had gotten the bandit currently slumped at my feet killed, wrapped my fingers around the handle, and yanked it towards me.

The metal gate opened. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Feeling immensely relieved, I proceeded through the previously blocked doorway.

The next room seemed to have no immediate enemies, simply a dangerous-looking spiral staircase set into the floor and a much wider alcove cut into the wall, with two short steps leading up into it. Some kind of candelabra, a table, more burial urns, and a chest all were laid upon the little platform. A lesser soul gem sat, its multifaceted violet-pink depths tantalizing, in one of the empty candelabra, and I snatched it up along with septims from the urns, and some more money and potions from the small chest. On the tabletop was a healing potion and a leather-bound book simply titled _Thief. _I picked it up and cracked it open, but decided to read it later, when I was safe.

_Maybe I can pick up some skills from it_.

Stowing the book, I moved to the staircase and stared down its depth. The wooden planks looked as if they defined the term "rotted". I frowned, preparing to go down them anyways, when I heard a chattering, scratching noise. I froze, listening. The pattering, scratching sounds came again. I took an experimental step onto the rickety planks: they creaked, and it wasn't the sound I was hearing. My frown deepened.

Suddenly, the scrabbling grew much louder, there was a curiously vicious squeak, and a very much alive Skeever appeared before me, large teeth chattering, beady eyes keen, ratty fur covered in filth, blood and pus. I let out a small yelp, scrambling for my daggers and lashing out at the diseased rodent. It hissed another squeak—this one a dying sound—when the blade connected, slicing into its side. It fell over with a little, keening shriek, and I spat in distaste, cringing.

The sounds came again, more this time. I swore and readied my daggers. The next two Skeevers came together, leaping at me, gaining surprising height. The one I knocked out of the air with a well-aimed cut, killing the damned thing, but the other managed to sink its narrow fangs into my arm. I swore loudly and swatted it away, slashing at it angrily with both blades. It fell to the ground, and in a fit of spite, I stowed a dagger, summoned flame in my left hand, and burnt the damned things to a crisp, my other hand clutching at the bleeding little gash: it was short but deep.

Smoking, charred little vermin corpses at my heels, I took out the healing potion I'd taken from the table up above and sipped half of it, making a face, and watched as the muscle knit back together slowly in my arm. I poked at it, finding it surprisingly tender, and cut a strip of linen to wrap around the spot, tying it tightly with hand and teeth. Once satisfied with my work, I continued down the stairs.

The room the spiraling stairs led into was absolutely covered in cobwebs, clinging to the walls, shelves and pillars. I shuddered as I navigated around the webbed netting, investigating the stone table in the center of the room and finding a weak paralyzing poison and a magic scroll meant to summon an explosive fireball. I put them away with a threadbare grin and moved on, down into the tunnels again.

As I moved down the hallway, a desperate sounding male voice called out to me.

"Is…is someone coming?" It yelled, anxious. "Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling_?_ _Anyone_?" The voice grew louder the further I went down the tunnel, brushing aside more cobwebs. I came around the bend at the end of the tunnel to find a doorway almost completely obscured by thick layers of webbing. Clearly, I would have to either cut through it or burn it away.

I chose fire, and watched the webs ignite instantly, burning up in a flash of sticky threads, breaking, snapping and flying up and melting away all at once. In a moment, the doorway was clear, and, flames still at the ready, I stepped through.

_Damn…_

If I had thought the previous rooms were disgusting, then this took the record. I couldn't even make out the walls everything was so densely coated in the slimy, silky, ghostly white strands of a spider's trap. I had little time to look around, however, as the clattering chattering of too-many-spindly-legs scurried about the floor to my left. I whirled around. An immense Frostbite Spider dropped down from a crude, circular hole in the ceiling, landing a few feet in front of me on a circular stone grate in the floor. Though it was large, it stood oddly, rocking on its many legs as if somewhat wounded.

I hissed at it, diving aside to dodge a spattering glob of corrosive venom, and unleashed flames upon the creature. Unlike the Skeevers or men, it made no real, identifiable sound of pain as it burned, and I dove at it while it wobbled, chattering, hacking at its hard-shelled limbs with my dagger. One of the legs cracked, a vicious clear fluid spilling out, and I whirled out of the way of flailing, hook-lined appendages, darting in to stab at its ugly body.

The battle with the creature was short but vicious, my strategy consisting of firing jets of flame and then switching over to attacks with my daggers when my poor magicka reserves lagged.

I got several scrapes and cuts, but luckily avoided its venomous spit and pincers. The damned arachnid shuddered as it finally collapsed in its death throes, and I breathed hard, downing the other half of my earlier healing potion.

As I waited for all my little wounds to close, I went about the room, reaching into disgusting egg pods wrapped in more webs and some viscous slime, as well as into the husks of long-mummified corpses in search of anything valuable, merrily ignoring the crying bandit caught up in some web. At least, I got spider eggs—who knew, maybe they'd be poisonous, and thereof worth some gold. With my cuts finally closing, though, like the Skeever's bite, oddly tender, I moved over to the thief and looked him up and down.

He was a dusky-skinned Dunmer, with a narrow, angled face and pointed chin, and oddly styled mustache decorating his thin upper lip, a thin, triangular beard topping his chin. From what I could see, he was dressed in studded leathers, but it was quite difficult to discern under all that webbing.

"You…you did it. You killed it!" He laughed, almost hysterically. "Quick, now! Cut me down before anything else shows up!" I quirked an eyebrow at him, crossing my arms and snorting.

_This is deliciously ironic. I set out to catch a thief…and the damned bugs do it for me._

"Where's the golden claw?" I drawled, raking a lazy eye over his hidden form. "Tell me, and then we'll see about getting you down."

"O-oh yes! The cl-claw!" With stutters like that, the man was either jubilant or nervous…possibly both.

_Hmmm. _

"I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together! All of it!" My brow furrowed.

_What in Oblivion is he talking about? What does he know?_

"Help me down and I'll show it to you. All of it!" He pleaded. "You won't _believe _the power the Nords have hidden there, really!" I shook my head.

"Hand over the claw, first. Tell me where it is." I demanded shortly, and he shook his head as much as he was able.

"I have it. On me. And I'll give it to you. But does it _look _like I can move? Cut me down, cut me down! That first!" He was nearly babbling, his eyes racing about—definitely eager for something.

_I'll be damned if I let you run off on me, coward._

With less-than-careful, quick movements, I sliced at the threads holding him until my slashes came precariously close to his body. After a few more strokes, the mess finally gave, and he fell to his knees, panting heavily.

I turned by dagger about in my palm and stabbed down at him, ramming the blade into the back of his neck before he could even stand up. He wheezed, the air leaving his lungs for the last time, and dropped.

I smiled grimly. As it turned out, he did indeed have the claw on him. It was a beautiful object, surprisingly light for pure gold. What chilled me, however, and nearly had me smashing the thing against the stone, was its shape.

Though similar to a bird's claw, it was not that. When I stared at the gorgeous golden carving, I was perfectly reminded of only one thing: the form of a giant, black monolith, dragon's claws gripping the edges of the watchtowers in Helgen as its burning pitch eyes stared down at me, ripping stone and mortar to pieces…tearing furrows in flesh and earth…

I shuddered, forcing the bloody, horrific images from my mind and turning my attention solely on examining the claw. It was indeed shaped like a dragon's…foot, or what had they. Three long, golden talons stretched forward from the paw, and on the base of the palm were three circular, raised imprints, once again, of animals. In a vertical row, trailing down from the base of the talons to the edge of the palm was a bear, a moth or butterfly, and an owl.

_Maybe this is what the damned thief was referring to by the markings and the door in some hall?_

Frowning, I bent down and patted along his pockets, eventually finding a flat, square bulge tucked under his collar. I pulled it out: it was a journal. Many pages were empty, only the first few with any text, messy and nearly illegible. I squinted at it, tilting the page towards the skylight behind me.

_"My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow._  
><em>Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that "When you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands.'"<em>

Well…that was verifiably useless. I'd already gathered the pictures on the palm had something to do with this door he mentioned. Ah, well. At least I wasn't the only one thinking Valerius a fool…

I sighed, rubbing at my already aching arms, and dug into my pack for another healing potion that I swallowed just to be safe. While it was open, I stashed the journal and the claw firmly at the bottom of the bag, and then tied it closed again. I stood, rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck and back, and shook my arms and legs out, hoping some of the stiffness would abate soon. With another heavy sigh, I stepped over Arvel's—as his journal so indicated him—corpse and walked down the corridor his strung up form had previously been blocking.

The first new room I came to was odd, shaped vaguely like a half circle with some large, strange mantle or altar of sorts taking up the majority of the space. It was shaped almost like a…a _foot_, or something of the like, a truly confusing structure. There were many open doorways leading into closet-like spaces, barely a few feet deep, piled with more cobwebs and large urns. Atop the odd structure were smaller urns and several soul gems. I dug in the urns for septims, jewels, and jewelry, and took the soul gems from their places. Nothing else of import seemed to be here, so I moved on down the only hallway.

The dusty hall quickly turned into a mess of a passage, full of filth and crumbling pillars, and lined with crypts, rectangular pits cut into the walls, bones with the occasional strip of old fat or muscle wrapped in cloth lying mournfully within. I eyed them and suppressed a shudder. A fresh corpse was one thing, ashes were one thing, but an old, dried up, and fleshless body was something else entirely.

They reminded me far too much of all the stories of the vengeful dead the Dunmer were taught as children, scaring them away from any traditions but for the burning of bodies and scattering of ashen remains. They had just been that, children's tales…but still I could not repress a shiver.

And when one of the bony bodies shifted in its resting place in front of me, dust falling from age-old armor as it sat up, curling starch-white, skeleton fingers around the haft of an ancient axe and lurching on to stick-like feet towards me, its half-missing jaw gaping open in a haunting snarl and its empty eye sockets glowing with a malevolent, tormented blue, I could not repress a startled, horrified shriek.

"_BY ALL THE BLOODY SHADOWS!" _I screamed, backing away from the shambling, undead _thing. _My brain was frying in my skull, an unfamiliar, dormant panic clawing up my throat and stifling my thoughts; but when the creature swung at me, my body took control for itself, instinct alone wrapping my hands around my blades and lunging at my attacker.

I did not come back to myself during the brief battle; I did not come back to myself when the thing crumpled once more into a lifeless pile of bones, held together by long-dried ligaments of collagen and wraps of paper-thin cloth; I did not come back to myself when I fell to my knees a few feet from the horrid creature, staring blankly at the corpse of a _corpse_.

I _did _return to my senses, however, when, further down the twisting burial hall, another monstrosity crawled out of its grave—this one once a woman, if its wrapping arrangement and wider hips were any indication—and rushed for me. It was then I became conscious again; and my thoughts were only centered on one thing: I was getting the answers or treasure or whatever the blasted Dragonstone was, and I was getting the _bloody hell _out of this crypt and to the first bar I could reach.

With a rough growl, I sprung to my feet and dove at the stumbling corpse, hacking at it furiously until it fell to pieces at my feet like its predecessor. Then, I reached into the bones for the gleams of gold I could see glittering in ribcages and clenched between bony fingers, both of the ones that had attacked me and those that seemed to lie dormant, truly _just _corpses.

_There is no way in Nirn or Oblivion I am letting some strung-together skeletons take me down, and no way in any of the realms I'm letting dead men hold onto gold when I could have it! I'll be damned if I'm not getting out of here rich and successful, gods-damn it!_

With those thoughts firmly in mind, I stalked down the hallways, prideful fury empowering my steps, just reminding myself to slip into a crouch so that I could surprise these brainless things. Creeping up on them was a simple thing once I learned to spot the differences between the attacking corpses and the truly dead ones: fairly clear things, like whether or not they were "buried" in armor, or if there was a spark in their eye sockets, or if their claw-like fingers held a weapon to their empty chests. Determining these little facts made it considerably easier to deal with the most base of the undead creatures, kept moving by some ancient magic. I found that even should they rise before I could get close enough to cut them down where they lied, if I held still, they would not notice me, rather half-shambling, half-trotting about in circles and narrowly avoiding walls.

Such was the fashion of how I proceeded until I came upon a different sort of walking corpse. These would break out of their coffins with zeal, pacing about even when a living thing was nowhere in sight, as if they were restless. The real difference I found, however, was in that these restless ones were not simple warriors, but also wielded magic, blasting me with the cold-burn of a frost spell.

These I would combat with either fire magic or arrows from a distance, staying out of range of their spells and maintaining a levelheaded patience as I took the time to aim for their pacing forms. Along with these different types of creatures, I had to navigate traps, from more poisoned arrows at one point to pressure plates nearly-hidden in the floor that set spiked wooden gates swinging in my direction. These caused nearly more trouble than the corpses themselves, but I managed.

Eventually, I came to a room with a gurgling river running over tumbled rocks, birthed from three slim, leisurely gushing waterfalls raining down from one side of the room, the current disappearing under an iron gate on the other. There was a single upright coffin in the corner from which one of the restless things burst.

I dispatched the corpse with two well-placed shots, raided the single chest up against the far wall, and then went about looking for a way to open the gate. I resolved I must be getting to the edge of what I could take, because it took me far too long to realize the chain I needed to pull was directly next to said gate. I slapped myself soundly before I went sloshing up the little river.

The water did not run far underfoot, and I was quite suddenly on damp, dark soil, a mix or small rocks and various bits of earthen debris. The cave walls were lined by the occasional growth of dimly glowing blue mushrooms, little pockets of ephemeral light that lit the dank, some of which I picked for myself. Natural stone pillars reached down from the dripping ceilings, and more waterfalls spilled down from gaps in the walls and into the river flowing by the wayside. I dunked my head briefly under the spray of one in an attempt to refresh myself, with some mild success.

I then came upon an opening where the river seemed to fall away, the pathway continuing down to the right and further into the cave. When I peaked over the little ledge, I saw an earthen bridge, one of the corpse women patrolling across it. I shot her down with my bow, her nearly weightless body tumbling over the edge of her perch and down, catching on boulders with a muted splash. I paused to raid the chest nearby for gold and potions and then continued down the curving little descending path that spat me out onto the slim bridge I'd just been looking down on.

Curiously, snow and frost lined the little earth bridge, as well as the rocks below it. I followed this spiraling path down to the bottom of a small basin where the falls seemed to end, though the river continued beyond my reach past a tumble of rocks. There in the tiny basin I found several piles of bones with more gold, and one more crudely locked chest that contained lockpicks, septims, a bundle of iron arrows, and a horned iron helmet. These things in hand, I made my way back up the twisting slope and continued down the path leading further into the barrow, the land ascending slightly for the first time.

I emerged back into a tunnel of stone more like the beginning of the barrow, floor covered in roots and decaying furniture scattered about. Continuing on brought me to a wide room with multiple, thick pillars, well lit by three burning braziers, a sturdy, iron-edged, wooden door set into the far wall.

A single restless undead skittered around the area, and I was quick to put it down with flame and steel, though it got a successful shot at my right leg with that damned frost spell, chilling the limb into stiffness and dull aching. I lingered by the open flames of the fires in an attempt to relieve some of the feeling, with little notable effect.

Sighing in both exasperation and tiredness, I unlocked a chest nearly swallowed amongst the loose stones of a fallen column, though this one had a slightly finer lock to it, and took me two lockpicks to pick. I pocketed the gold, potion, and arrows, but left behind the battleaxe—I was dangerously close to the limit of what I could carry. I rubbed at my numbing leg and pushed through the door, into what I believed would be the Bleak Falls Sanctum.

On the other side of the door, a short yet dome-like stone ceiling curved overhead, a fire burning brightly in the center of the room, contained by four neatly arranged stone dragon heads, all facing out in different directions. I edged around the pyre and went on my way down the round tunnel, an odd, rushing sound that reminded me of a blade slicing through the air echoing up ahead.

I was dismayed and infuriated to find that blocking my way was yet another trap—a thin tunnel lined with heavy metal axes, swinging back and forth like pendulums from somewhere in the ceiling. I would have to attempt to either navigate the space between the swaying blades, or try a mad dash past them all at once.

_Fire and damnation. Hasn't there been enough already? Blasted, bloody, shadows!_

I frowned and studied the space between the pendulums for a moment, finding it horribly little. I gnashed my teeth, stealing a breath through them, waited for the moment just as the axes fell again…and sprinted forward. I could feel the _whoosh _of a passing blade, just grazing my shoulder blades; and breathed a sigh of relief when it was no more than the sting of air at the back of my neck. I looked about. I was in a particularly large room, reflective, rainbow slicks of oil spilled across the floors, paper lanterns hanging precariously on rusted chains above them. Curving stone bridges and walkways stretched above me, while to my right were small rooms and to my left a raised dais with another coffin. When the corpses came for me this time, running over the combustible liquids, I set them aflame, and watched the bone-men either burn or explode from the heat outright.

Once my enemies were down, I climbed the ramp-like stairs made only of haphazardly strung together logs, moved swiftly across the upper stone walkways, and over the curving bridges that spanned to the other side of the room. There was little of value lying around, and I heard none of the distinctive shuffle I was coming to recognize form the undead. Turning left around a short turn, I came to a set of iron doors and pushed them open.

The hall I stepped into next stole my breath for a moment.

_This must be the "Hall of Stories" Arvel spoke of…_

The long hall's walls were carved with pictures detailing some account, history or fable I could not decipher, repeated on each section of wall. At the end of the hallway was an oddly shaped door, not quite square or circular, also carved with swirling patterns. Three thick, circular rings took up the center of the door, each ring with a gold stamp similar to those on the palm of the dragon's claw; and at the very center of the door, a golden circle with three slots, displaying obviously the shape of the claw itself.

I flung my bag over my shoulder and pulled harshly at the ties, digging about in the mess until I found the burnished golden carving I so sought. I looked at it again in the light from the tall braziers on either side of me: there, in the palm, a bear, a moth, and an owl. I glanced up at the door.

The animals on the rings did not match, but the grooves between them implied that perhaps they could be turned, like the rotating pillars from what seemed like hours, even days ago. I set the claw gently aside and braced both hands on the outermost ring, stretching up on my toes to reach it, pressing into it and pulling the ring toward me, dragging it into motion with my weight. The first spin brought it 'round to the owl, and another to the bear. Next was the middle ring, which I did not have so to reach for. This one too I spun twice until it displayed the insect. Finally, the innermost ring, the smallest of them all, spun two times like its brothers.

When all were showing the proper image, I picked up the claw, lined the talons surely up with the holes in the centerpiece, and pressed it in. The heavy stone caved forward, sinking into the door and seeming to twist to the side of its own accord. I yanked the claw back as the rings rotated again all on their own, a series of mechanisms going off, and then with a chorus of clicks and groans, the door jerked downward, receding into the earth inch by inch, revealing a hidden stairway leading onwards.

I gulped down a breath, stowed away the golden claw once more—I still needed Valerius's reward, after all—and mounted the stone steps two at a time. I was _close. _The magnetic pull forward tugged at my blood and my bones. It was inexplicable, irresistible and irrefutable.

_It's here. Whatever it is, it's here._

I came into a large, echoing cavern, well lit by moonlight, littered with natural, sagging pillars and boulders. Ahead of me was a raised, tiered stone dais, waterfalls spilling around it in the backdrop, a bridge crossing the river surrounding the spot, isolating it like an island. A large, solid stone coffin sat on the platform, and behind it, to the side, was an immense rune-covered wall, carved with all sorts of symbols, a strange head pictured above the writing.

A _dragon's _head.

As I crept across the bridge and climbed the stairs, chanting filled my ears, reverberating in my mind. My attention was utterly stolen from the coffin and my objective…fixated solely upon the wall with its rune carvings...the _words._

The chanting grew, swelling in volume and intensity with every step closer I took. My vision flickered, blackening at the edges, narrowing on a single particular string of runes in the center of the wall.

A step forward.

_Flicker._

Another step.

_Flicker, flicker._

Another step. Two.

_Flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker._

Darkness was banking my sight, and blue tendrils of light began to well up from the runes that stole my vision, swirling, building, blooming, reaching for me, surrounding me.

My breath was expelled from my body all at once, my world tilted, growing finer and finer until there was nothing but the runes, the word…_the word on the wall. _The chanting was unbearable, deafening in my ears, rushing, screaming, calling, giving…

The word pulsed. It seared my eyes. No, more than that. It was a brand upon my mind, a shot through my flesh, reverberating through my very being. The word pulsed, an inexorable, unrelenting force, and my _soul _pulsed with it.

In the very depths of my being, my soul screamed out the word, a chant all its own.

_FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS. FUS._

In the very depths of my being, in my soul, I knew it for what it was.

_FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE. FORCE._

All at once, my sight flickered again, the blackness, gone, the tendrils of power and light, gone, the knowledge, absorbed, and blazing, burning, bursting rune, dying. I pitched forward, landing hard on my hands and knees, my forehead slumping against the stone of the wall, directly over where the word had pulsed, the markings burning with cold against my feverish skin. I gasped, choking on air, on a scream or a roar, I didn't know, my lungs aching as breath struggled to return to my body. I trembled so violently I thought my very bones would pop from their sockets.

Behind me, stone grated, scraping across stone, and a loud, echoing thud blared through the now horribly silent cavern. Something emitted an otherworldly groan, the sound tearing itself from a dried, decayed throat, a horrible, rotted screech. My world swam as I peeled my forehead from the stone and looked blearily over my shoulder. A fully armored Lich rose from the casket on the dais behind me, moaning and shrieking its anger and pain. I staggered to my feet, the threat sending shocks of adrenaline swimming through my drained body. I raised a hand weakly, the appendage trembling, shaking, and grit my teeth, loosening a stream of flame at the corpse that reminded me eerily of a general.

I kept up the steady stream of fire as it came for me, until the moment my limited magicka reserves ran completely dry; and still, it seemed I'd done next to nothing. Groaning out a growl, I half-fell, half-dived to the side to escape a deadly swing of its large blade. I was just stumbling back to my feet, trying to put some distance between it and me, when its unhinged jaw fell open again, and this time, instead of a scream, it projected some overpowering, near-invisible push that slammed into me, tossing me off my feet and sending me sprawling, rolling, side-over-side.

"_Ro…da!_" A pulverizing pain crushed my insides, and I gasped in agony, clutching at my gut, hunching over. But there was no time for pain, no time to be stunned so.

_No time, no time..._

The overlord was already upon me. I rolled weakly away, cringed as metal rang harshly, clanging against stone inches from my ear. I rolled again, and again, tearing myself free of the straps of my pack, leaving it there on the floor, its contents spilling out. I caught a glimpse of red on one of my rotations, and spun myself back towards it, fingers reaching desperately for the potion that may yet save me as I once more narrowly dodged a fatal blow.

My fingertips curled around the thin red glass bottle, and I pulled it tight to my chest as I tucked into a ball and rolled away again; my back slamming into a cave wall. My vision swam as I stood, ripping the stopper free and choking down the potion in two desperate gulps. The agony in my gut retreated slightly, my sight righting, and the ringing in my ears quieting, and I had the presence of mind to yank my daggers free as the lich came at me again.

A shower of metal sparks sprayed up as our blades met, mine crossed in an 'X' to block its heavy, devastating blow. I dropped almost instantly to my knees under the pressure, my arms trembling, heaving with the effort to hold the sword at bay; but my blood was pounding through my veins, the primal, screaming instinct to survive lending my strength. In that moment, it was not with rage or fury or hate or any conscious thought at all that I brought forth the _Ancestor's Wrath, _but the drive to live alone, unleashing an inferno stronger than any previous.

The Lich did not shrink away as it slowly burned, and I grit my teeth, pushing the balls of my feet hard into the stone floor, pushing myself up with strength unknown to me. My eyes widened, and then narrowed in effort as I shoved against the overlord's blade. For an everlasting second, as I got my other foot under me, we seemed suspended at an impasse, about to tip over a precipice…and then I surged upwards with a wild cry, my daggers lashing out, the Lich's blade wrenched from its grasp and bouncing away with a clatter.

In that next second, I was upon it, my daggers stabbing furiously, blindly wildly, desperately, the flames of my blood consuming, roaring, burning. Only the rawness of my throat let me know that I was screaming, harsh, manic cries, my hands flying as I inflicted any damage I could, the only thing, _the only thing _driving me now pure, unadulterated _instinct._

_I. Will. Live._

I howled, something inside me cracking, as my limbs continued their frenzy. My racial power had receded at some point, but my daggers continued. I do not know for how long I attacked, how long I continued even when the magical life had fled and died and the living corpse died with it; but eventually, my movements slowed, ceased, my breaths coming in ragged, painting gasps, my entire frame seizing in pain and fear.

I sat atop the creature's bones for another immeasurable stretch of time, my world roiling and pitching. At some point, I stumbled to my feet, over to the crypt it had inhabited, withdrawing the heavy tablet there that pulled at me, though not with a fraction of the call the word on the wall had had.

I was unaware as I took with me whatever was on the corpse and in the chest nearby, as I packed away my things and staggered across another bridge. I was unaware as I rose and fell clambering up stone stairs, as I dragged myself up one last upwards-sloping tunnel and twisted a handle on a stand, revealing a wall that slid away. I was unaware as I dragged myself from the depths of those tunnels and out into the blinding light of the new morning.

I was aware however, just barely, of falling to my knees once more in the snow, on the stone. Of the terrible agony that gripped my abdomen, a familiar, horrible seizing I feared even in my nightmares. I was aware, just barely, of the awful, liquid warmth gathering in my lungs, choking the air out of me. Of the painful, wracking coughs that tore through my body, splattering the white, white snow with splashes of crimson and bits of pink matter, painting my hands and fingers as they tried to clasp over my mouth, flecking my lips with blood.

I was aware, just barely, of the ghastly fear gripping me, of the biting cold that I could no longer feel, of my failing sight as slowly I went blind everything around me. I was aware, just barely, of the frozen press of crystal tears against my cheek as I pitched forward, into the drifts of powdered ice. I was aware, incredibly so, of the one thought looping through my fading conscience.

_No…please, no. Not this, not here, not now…No, please…There must be…more than this…I want...to live…please…No…_

I knew no more.

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><p><strong>AN: **This would have been longer, but I decided after some debate to end it here and use the rest of the material for the next chapter. I'd really love to hear your thoughts on this one guys, please! The information's kinda critical, what with how many dungeons Ser's gonna be delving into along the way...I wanna be sure it's working for you all. :/

Now I'm off to go driving, LMAO. When the painkillers wear off, anyways...teehee...


	7. Quagmire

**A/N: **Annnd back. :D Slightly shorter chapter, but important. Hope you all enjoy and can follow along XD Oh, and what's this? Is that a troll I see? You mean he's _back? _Oh, goodness. ;)

A thousand thanks to my beta, _**eye of the**** divine**, _for her work, and another thousand thanks to _**Z LOT847**_and _**TwistedSystem**_for their reviews! They were few, but they meant a lot. I love you guys!

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

><p>When Ralof had snuck—no, <em>strode. <em>He was a _warrior, _damn it—quietly from his sister's house in the middle of the night, yearning for the cold, fresh mountain air of his homeland and the kiss of cold rain he had heard drumming against the roof earlier in the day, he had not expected to see anyone he knew. Not at this late an hour: even now, the liveliest soul in Riverwood would be abed, preparing for the next, glorious day. Which was, exactly, why he had chosen now to come out, though it rankled him how much like a sneak-thief he felt, laying low like this.

_Damned Imperials._

However, the fact remained: he had not expected to see anyone he knew. Particularly not the Dark Elf woman who had saved him twice over.

After their "chat" in his sister's house, he had thought he'd seen the last of her; and yet, there she was, over on the north road, riding a shaggy warhorse up the path to that damned creepy tomb, in the middle of the night, with a storm coming in.

To say he was surprised would have been an understatement. Moreover though, was the uncomfortable feeling in his gut—which he had long ago learned to listen to—that something bad was soon to happen. However, this was the elf. She had shown she could look after herself, and she had made it clear she didn't want him around.

..._But_, whether the damned woman thought so or not, by Talos, he was sworn by his honor to her for saving his own life—twice.

And so, he found himself waking early, watching the road well before dawn, with no sight of the elf. He even went up the road to find the horse she'd ridden on still tied there, chomping on frosty grasses without a care in the world. It was then that the disturbed feeling returned tenfold.

Ralof ran back to Gerdur's for his axe, and then took the elf's horse and rode up to the dark, twisting sepulcher. But for the wind, and the little gusts of snow it stirred, everything was still about the tomb. He tethered the horse to a pile of stones at the foot of the stairs and approached the entrance, stepping over the corpses of bandits as he went.

Inside, it was even eerier than he'd imagined. The stone halls were dark, overgrown, crumbling, and echoed with a moaning wind. He found more bandits-more corpses-and the picked over remains of a camp. Continuing on, he made his way down ruined hallway...only to be stopped around a bend not much further in by a collapse of rock. Mold and dust still hung thick in the air, and Ralof coughed, backing away.

_It must be recent. _He thought, subdued. It only left so many options: one, the elf hadn't made it any father than this, and had gone back and stormed off without her steed; two, she was _under _the collapse and dead; or three, she was somewhere on the other side of it.

Squaring his shoulders, Ralof turned on his heel and strode back to the first chamber and out the heavy iron doors. There was another entrance to the barrow, he knew, around the mountain, higher up. It would take some navigating from here, but he could get there, especially with the elf's horse. He would go in there and continue his search until he came back to the cave-in; only then would he surrender if there was still nothing to find.

It took him about two hours to steer the heavy, sure-footed, beast up and down and around crags and outcroppings and sheer cliff faces covered in frost, but eventually, he and the horse made it to about where he thought the entrance was located. He spent the next few minutes squinting at the mountainside, searching for the yawning opening that was sure to be there. When he finally spotted it, Ralof dug his heels into the mare's flanks, driving her forward.

It was there, near the mouth of the barrow's rear cave, that he found her bloody, battered form. She lay sprawled on her front, dusted lightly by snow, a pack haphazardly strewn over her shoulder and blood spattering the ground around her. Her breath stirred the tiniest flurries in the crystals, but just barely, and otherwise, she was totally still.

His grim mood growing along with his alarm, Ralof dismounted and swung the frozen elf up into the saddle, gently, climbing up behind her. Her lean, cold frame slumped into him as he wrapped an arm loosely around her middle, her head lolling limply under his chin. Ralof grimaced at how unresponsive she was. Corpse-like. Grunting, he kicked the mount in the direction of the thin stream of smoke he could see coiling in the sky nearby, the cabin of a local apothecary, if his memory served true. It was the elf's only hope right now—Riverwood was not a town for healers or any damned magi; they were all sequestered up in their College.

Talos was with him, Ralof thought, for the alchemist, Anise, was already awake and sitting outside her cabin when he arrived. She began bustling around as he carried the elf inside, laying her on the small bed. Ralof was shoved aside as the estranged woman went about, throwing odd plants and ingredients together in a stomach-curdling potion that she poured down the elf's gullet. Though he had sought out help for the elf, Ralof couldn't help but feel a pang of somber depression as he watched the woman work. The elf was in bad shape, and he might have been able to do something more to prevent it...

The elf—_Sereosa. Call her by name, man, if she's to be dead soon_—looked awful: blood decorated her bluish lips, her clothes and hands, looking like crushed Snowberries against a backdrop of fresh snow, vivid and bright, while her gray skin was so pale and colorless he found himself thinking of the bedtime stories he and his sister's parents had told them about the Falmer, hiding in their caves and snatching good Nords that strayed too far from home, blind and bleach-skinned.

Ralof looked away respectfully when Anise began to strip her of her dirty, bloody armor, but then he remembered how she'd changed from her prisoner's rags in Helgen before him without a care, and returned to examining her. The healer muttered to herself as she worked.

"Lacerations, blunt trauma, ooh, lots of blunt trauma…Tsk, cracked skull, ribs…" She prodded at arms and legs and some particularly nasty gashes. "No, no, broken, not cracked. Yes, three broken, two cracked. And a sprain? Oh, that's infected. Bone Break Fever? Rattles? No, no. Ataxtia! Ah, yes."

Her injuries looked terrible, the kind of beating he'd only seen on the corpses come back from some damned Imperial torturer. Mottled, gruesome splotches of sickly yellow and deep, blackened violet marred the entirety of her stomach, creeping up her chest and neck. A wrapped wound on her arm dripped blood and sickly oozing yellowish pus, and her right leg was an ugly bluish shade somewhat like frostbite. Little cuts and bruises spotted her limbs and body, and her chest rose and fell in wet, frail pants so shallow he kept thinking she'd died right there.

"Oh, how pretty! This is artful, hahaha! How _do _you get your innards so colorful, hmm girly? Anise will have to get you up to answer, oh yes she will. Especially this right here…"

He watched, wordlessly and feeling slightly sick, as the lonely healer went about her work, equal parts creepily fascinated and grave. She produced and administered so many potions and salves that he quickly lost count. Even restoration magic was added to the mix, which had him recoiling slightly, though he bore his discomfort like any true warrior: unflinchingly. He stood leaning against the wall for hours, thinking himself forgotten, except when sent away occasionally by a ragged demand for more of the blue flowers or the insect wings or another magicka potion, _'and quickly now, boy.'  
><em>  
>It was a strange thing, how the time dragged as Anise worked. He didn't really notice too much how the daylight hours crept by into night, or how the moons lit up the dark skies, the Thief winking merrily above. It was a lot like the times he'd stayed awake for days, watching and waiting for the Imperials, or for his comrades; a surreal thing.<p>

Slowly, with the passing of hours, the life seemed to bleed back into the elf's battered body. The discoloration faded little by little, until the blossoming, harsh patches were only faint, colorful smudges, her breathing evening out somewhat and some heat stealing back into her flesh. The gashes and bruising and frostbite all disappeared, and by the time he saw the dawn outside the little hut's window once more, the alchemist had declared the elf no longer in danger.

With her earlier enthusiasm seemingly drained, the robed woman then slumped, exhausted, into a chair, squinting at her charge through bleary eyes and drifting in and out of sleep with soft snores. She reminded him, vaguely, of the family's dog, Stump, ragged after a long day of playing, but content as he napped, sprawled on the floor however he felt like sprawling right then. Snorting, Ralof looked over to the newly healed woman. It was a strange relief to see her looking so much healthier, the lifting of the heavy, guilty feeling, the fear that he'd lost another comrade. Even if it was just the elf.

At this time, he finally noticed the strange markings adorning her skin. He had not noticed them when she wore little more than rags in Helgen, and he had not seen them when she was first undressed, hidden by the injuries as they were; but they were there now, starkly visible. Some kind of writing, inked into her ashy skin in messy, clustered rows, one of the symbols always bigger than the rest, a brownish red, while the others were smaller and pure black. The script was stained across her chest, just below the line of her collarbone, scrawled in several lines over her taut stomach and navel, and printed neatly in vertical lines down the insides of her forearms, starting at her wrists. He had no idea what they meant, but he decided that if she ever woke up, gods-damn her, he would certainly ask.

The sleepless day and night finally weighing on him, Ralof slumped down on the floor, propped up against the wall, and closed his eyes, chin tucked against his chest and hand resting lazily on the haft of his trusted axe.

He'd see about answers when he had some rest himself.

* * *

><p>My dreams were disturbed, fleeting and flickering and ever-changing scenes. They were intermingled, both echoes of the cold and the one-voice-many-voices, as well as flashes of memory and flashes of pain, some pleasant, some wrenching at my heart.<p>

At some point, I became sure I was lost in Lady Vaermina's Quagmire, doomed to wander dream and nightmare forever. The scenes were many, innumerable, and constantly changing with a flicker, just a flicker…

Flicker.

_Warm air and gray skies. The dry taste of ashes on my tongue. A calloused, long-fingered hand sitting heavy on my head, toying with newly short-cropped hair, and a soothing, proud voice speaking above me as I panted excitedly, staring at the little throwing knife lodged in the side of a burlap man's head._

_"Your mark is off, my girl. A little lower, to the left."_

_"I wasn't aiming for the throat, father."_

_"Oh? And what were you after, hmm?"_

_"The eyes, of course!"_

_"Hahaha! Oh, my girl! Such fire in you."_

Flicker.

_A sniffling cough, snotty and wet, and the trumpet of a sickly nose. I wrap my disproportionate limbs, too long for my body, around the slighter, trembling form of the other girl, elder yet so much smaller._

_"Shh, Isa. You'll be okay, you'll see. Remember what fath—" It hurt, but I forged on. "Remember what father's letter said: mother will know what to do. We needn't worry. She'll take care of us…"_

_But she didn't. She didn't._

Flicker.

_Pressure giving way beneath my fingers, wrapped tightly around a wire-bound hilt, blood gushing freely from the puncture wound in the throat of the lowly merchant man. His scarlet eyes still held light, quickly dimming, as precious crimson drained away. A larger figure swooped in with a thick glass vial, catching the ruby liquid as it ran. I yanked my blade free of the other's flesh._

_"Congratulations, my girl. Your first kill. I am so proud." I flashed a delighted smile, mirth bubbling past my lips._

_"It's wonderful, father."_

_"I know. Come, we must prepare for the ceremo—"_

Flicker.

_"Tell me again, my girl. With what do you lie?"_

_"With my words."_

_"With what do you speak the truth?"_

_"With my eyes, and my body."_

_"And how will you combat this?"_

_"By mastering them, so that they speak only what I wish them to."_

_"Good, good my girl. Now, how do you convince someone that what you say is true, hmm?"_

_"Assuming they know otherwise?"_

_"Yes, assuming they know otherwise, and that they know it very well."_

_"I convince someone that what I say it true by believing myself it is true in that moment; and in my belief, they will find doubt in their own, and I will seize that."_

_"Ahh, but then will you not lose yourself in your lies?"_

_"No. I will not."_

_"How can you know that?"_

_"I know because I know who I am; and because delusion has power only when you allow it to."_

_"All right, all right my girl. Just be careful. You've much yet to learn."_

_"Yes, father."_

_"Good. Now, what about—_

_"Donlyn! Sereosa! Come inside and clean up this instant! Lord Vendil will be arriving soon, for Ancestor's sake!" Two sets of crimson eyes share a tiresome glance. _

_"Yes, mother!" I shout towards the manor, bending to snatch up my things from the ash._

_"Not so fast, my dear girl. You know better." A sheepish smile._

_"Sorry, father."_

_"What are our words?"_

_"'Give them not satisfaction. Give them naught but their own hearts.'"_

_"That's my dear. Now, quickly, let us get home, before your mother starts spitting lava."_

_"Mother can't spit lava, father. Don't exaggerate so."_

_"Sweet girl, you don't know your mother. Come, now!"_

Flicker.

_Softness, warmth, contentment. Gentle crooning sounds, humble, full sounds, pretty sounds. A touch on her cheek, firm, tender, loving. Little patters, tiny steps._

_"Come here, Isunda." The crooning changes, sounds-not-long-sounds that convey meaning she knew not. More shuffling, pattering, scampering, closer now. Another touch, harder, damp, untrained. _

_"Careful, little rose. You must be gentle with your sister. She's just a babe."_

_"Sorry mama." A different sounds-not-long-sounds with meaning, higher, bubbling, quiet. This sound and this touch are not as warm or soft or nice, but they were kind…right._

_"Say hello, Isunda. Say, 'Hello, Sereosa!' so she knows you're here."_

_"Hello Ser-ay-ooh-sah." There are little tingles, rumbles from the source of the cooing warmth. Happy sounds._

_"Be good to your little sister, Isunda. Your family is the most precious thing."_

_"Yes mama." The little, sweaty, fumbling touch comes again, just as warm, but gentler…reverent._

_"I is Isunda, an' I 'ill aways protet you, sisser." The small sound promises, though she knows not what a promise is._

Just that it is warm…

Flicker.

_Someone gasps sharply, a familiar tone, and I clench my teeth, sucking in air, panic jumping. Not her. She was supposed to be abed, like mother. She wasn't supposed to see._

_"Sereosa!" She yelps, dashing towards me, footsteps pounding through the floorboards, each reverberation a new shock of pain. Agony as she crashes to her knees at my side, jostling me. _

_"Sister! You're hurt! What happened? Oh, my Lady Azura…" Delicate fingers, fluttering like butterfly's wings, brushing over soaked fabric and rent flesh._

_"Had a job. Went bad. But I got out, got the money. Came home." Speaking was difficult, as was breathing. It hurt so badly. "Hush, Isa. You worry…too much. 'M fine, I swear."_

_"No, you're not! _Damn _it, Sereosa!" A bright, comforting glow flares into life, golden and light and mending. The pain intensifies, and then begins to recede. "You have to stop this! Ancestors! You'll kill yourself!"_

_"Can't…stop…Isa. It doesn't…work like that. Have to have money, life. Y'know that."_

_"What good's our livelihood if you're dead, sister?" She demands, and then curses again, raggedly. "Damn it, this isn't closing!" The pain is much less, almost to the point of relief…or numbness. I stretch shaking, red-stained fingers out to touch the back of a healing hand, now wet with my lifeblood._

_"Shouldn't 'ave blood on your hands, Isa. They…they're too good, for that." I murmur, and she lets out an angry sob, the warm, tending light intensifying. _

_"Stop saying silly things, sister. Delirium doesn't suit you. Save your energy. You can't die!" _

_A weak laugh bubbles past my lips, amongst warm fluids. "I'll live, Isa…don't worry…I can't ever leave you…means all I _can _do is live."_

_"I'm holding you to that, Sereosa." She weeps softly above me, as tender as always, so precious and fragile in her goodness. The pain then that comes isn't from my wounds, but deep in my chest, a surge of despair dangerously close to regret. The only possible regret I'd ever have, that living my life could mean changing hers._

_"I'll live." I whisper as the darkness and the numbness close in. And then, because she'd never know my real meaning, I continue. "I'm sorry, Isunda."_

Flicker.

_Cold. Pain and cold. A pounding in my head, a terrible throbbing. What was this pain? Why did it hurt so badly? The pain, the pain, and the cold, so terribly cold. Could I not simply die? Could I not simply end, like him?_

_Oh, but it was so cold…_

Flicker.

_The burning, clawing, boiling sensation inside me. The horrible agony of my very body dissolving from within, like the doomed, desperate animals that would drink from the acid lakes near the Red Mountain. A sweet, sweet smile looming above me as tears streamed down my face and my screams wore my throat raw into silence, and still the pain, still, the smile. Laughter, delighted and redeemed. As if all was well now._

_Now, that I lay dying, burning, eaten alive, eaten away…Now, that she would have her reward._

Flicker.

_Bile rising up in my throat, lungs constricting, body trembling. I fall to my knees as my stomach heaves, and I retch acid and spittle. The sheer nothingness is incredible…There's no relief, no sorrow, no real satisfaction…just nothing._

_How can there be nothing, with my knife finally, finally in her damned black heart? How can there be nothing from all this, all this?_

_"Sereosa?" Her voice sounds from the door, tentative yet even, calm as the still sea. I jerk to my feet and stumble towards her, so she will not have to move into the room to find me, so she does not have to see as well as know._

_"It's done." I say raggedly, drawing a hand over my mouth. It tasted like ashes. Like death. She doesn't say anything else, just takes my arm and pulls me along, as if to guide me home._

_As if there is one, any longer; but maybe there is. Maybe it's in her. Mayb—_

Flicker.

_Ripping, tearing, wild pain. Complete agony, powerful enough an affliction to consume and destroy all at once, in one shot. And then…gone. Just the hole, the space where once something was._

_A letter, tear-stained and soot-streaked, crumples between my fingers and is hurled at the ground with a shriek of rage. Nothing left, now. No pain, no heart. No one, and nothing. I was alone. Betrayed, empty, and alone._

_Alone._

Flicker.

_The shrieks of the dead, moaning and ripping from shriveled lungs and tongues, bony hands stretching for me, hooking under my flesh and tearing away chunks of skin and sinew. Blood, hot, so hot it burned, splattering my arms, my sides and feet. My blood was like lava, I was so cold. It burned, it burne—_

Flicker.

_Aching, now. Deep and dug-in, never to be dislodged. The heavy hooks of a fate sealed, settled in my chest, a stone where once beat a heart. But no more, no more…_

_Not for much longer, now…_

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker, flicker. Flicker, flicker, flicker. _Flicker…_

When my eyelids fluttered open, they were cool and stuck wetly together with the tears dripping from their corners. I gasped in a shallow, ragged breath, feeling the bruised ache in my lungs even as I did so. The little aching gasps quickly seized, building, and turned to sharp heaves, painful and harsh. The drying tears sprung up in earnest, and my heavy, weak hand crawled up from wherever it'd been lying to cover my eyes of its own accord.

"Now, now girl. No cryin' after I been workin' on ya all this time." A matronly voice clucked close by.

My head jerked up dizzyingly, and I blinked my eyes furiously. Floorboards creaked nearby and a woman just beginning to show signs of aging in the sad creases of her face swam into my vision. I saw she was dressed in dark, gray-blue robes as she stood from a chair at my bedside, her spine cracking loudly. I flinched, and opened my mouth to speak, but found my lips parched and my throat stinging so viciously I immediately gave up the endeavor. Instead, I looked around.

It was fairly bright; light streamed through the window next to me, cut into the plain wood walls, the pale washed light of the late morning hours. I turned my head slightly, wincing again, and squinted at the room around me.

I was in a little cottage, really more a large shack, tucked firmly into a scratchy bed underneath a well worn, plain woolen blanket. The room was sparse, bare floors and walls, a few dressers and tables, with a tiny alchemy lab and enchanting table in the corner. The air smelled heavily of pungent herbs and sharp tonics, along with rot and blood and lingering tendrils of death. A sick feeling settled in my gut.

_What happened?_

I remembered the endless time spent trudging through Bleak Falls Barrow, the pain and the wounds, the walking corpses, the golden claw and the hall with tales carved into its walls. I remembered the secret door, unlocked by the very key I'd unknowingly sought, the cavern with the Lich Overlord and the words on the wall. I remembered a word, a brand on my being, something I could never possibly forget: _Fus._

…I…I remembered a frenzy, the struggle, the all-consuming drive to survive the battle, just to _survive_. I remembered an awful shriek, a terrible force flinging me aside like a straw doll. I remembered…a stone tablet, yes…and making my way into the open air, blood on snow as those dormant, festering wounds reopened…

And I remembered no more than that. So how was it that I was in this place, and alive?

I found my answer as my gaze finally fell on the familiar Nord sleeping slumped against a wall not two feet away, still dressed in those patriot blues of his, a hand on his axe. He snorted in his sleep, and his single blond braid detached itself from the straw-like mess that was the rest of his hair, falling over his ear and flopping on his cheek. I blinked some more and looked back up at the woman. She smiled kindly at me, displaying cracked, aged teeth, the expression scrunching up the shadowed bags under her dark eyes.

"You gave us quite the scare, ye did, little elf." She groused, disappearing down into a little locked cellar in the corner and coming back with a tankard of water. She offered it, and I accepted gratefully without any protest, sipping at the cool refreshment.

"What happened to me?" I asked after several experimental attempts, my voice cracking continuously, infuriatingly, until at least the eighth try. The woman shrugged knobby, sagging shoulders.

"I don't know what happened, just that the young man there came riding up with you on a horse, disturbing my morning the day past. You were in nasty shape, girl. I used up most of my potion stock keeping you alive."

I realized then that the woman had to be an alchemist; and possibly a mage if the herb smells and scattered, empty bottles labeled for magicka potion were any indication. I bowed my head to her.

"Thank you." I said solemnly, gravely, with a severity that she seemed not to comprehend. The woman shrugged her shoulders again.

"It was a good challenge. You had an infection—Ataxtia—from some Skeever bites, lots of lacerations, bruising, and swelling, frostbite on one leg, a cracked skull, broken ribs, and internal damage like I haven't seen since a damn fool hunter came staggerin' up here after trying to take down a mammoth. I don't know what's happened to you, girl, but that's no recent work, not completely." I opened my mouth, but she waved me off. "And don't be botherin' old Anise with your stories. She don't want to know what happened to ya when. She was just happy to help and 'ave some company again."

I could do nothing more than bow my head again. "Thank you, truly, Anise, for saving my life."

"Bah!" She scowled, not unkindly. "You can thank me by gettin' me my supplies back! In the meanwhile, you ought to be thankin' this young man. He's the one that got you here to ol' Anise." She waved an age-spotted hand at the Stormcloak dozing on the ground, and my expression morphed into a scowl. The alchemist wheezed a laugh at that, and the sound jerked the troll into wakefulness.

Anise wandered out of her home, muttering about sisters and mushrooms and Spriggans, and Ralof was left to scramble to his feet while I slowly eased upright in the tiny bed, letting the blanket slip from my bare torso to pool at my waist.

We stared at one another in silence for a long moment, his blue-eyed face as stubbornly cool as ever, and mine pulled into a severe frown. Finally, I puffed my cheeks full of air and exhaled heavily, dragging a hand over my eyes before I looked up at him.

"How did I get here? Why are _you _here?" I asked shortly, and he answered just as readily.

"I saw you going up towards the barrow the other night. Had a bad feeling. So I came up here to look around, and found you near dead. I remembered there was some kind of herbalist living out here, and the gods gave us luck to find her."

"You decided to go traipsing off into the wilds after someone who would happily kill you on the basis of a bad _feeling_?"

"_Talos._" He muttered. "It worked out now, didn't it?"

"Aye," I sighed. "But you're still a fool."

"And you're a thankless harpy, elf." He grumped with a cold, tired look, and I felt a bubble of remorse.

"Thank you, Ralof. I owe you my life." I stated evenly, sincerely, though it irritated me to be in the situation at all.

_Saved, by the troll. Now I'll owe him. And not some trifle, but my bloody _life. _Shadows and damnation, what a debt…_

"I was only returning the favor." He muttered in that calming, uniquely heavy accent of his. I scowled at him, irritation growing.

_And he can't even comprehend his due correctly._

"No, you weren't." I explained in a huff, mustering my patience. "We worked together to get out of Helgen—neither of us owed the other for that. As for the mine incident, you gave me information I needed, and provided shelter with your kin by vouching for me. Any debt you think you owed me was clear. Until now. Now, I owe you my life, well and truly."

"That's crazy." He argued, a bit of stubbornness coming into his tone. I glared up at him.

"No, it's not." I hissed, crossing my arms over my bare breasts in irritation, the muscles in my shoulders pulling stiffly. "It's the truth." He just grunted at me, clearly disagreeing, but perhaps seeing no good way to argue. I sighed again.

_Well, let the negotiations begin…_

"What do you want?" I asked him plainly. These, I was finding, were blunt folk; best to be about as forward as a mace to the face and to Oblivion with tact or intrigue when asking questions. The Nord gave me a curious look.

"Eh?"

"For payment." I explained, waving a hand in front of me. "Gold? A favor or errand?" I raised an eyebrow, lowering my crossed arms a bit. "Company for the night, perhaps?"

"_What?_" The man cried, pink somehow finding its way onto those rigid cheeks of his. How adorable. "By _Talos_, woman! No!"

"And you claimed you weren't racist." I said slyly, watching him squirm. His blush increased, indigent.

"That's not it." He growled, and I chuckled.

_How delightful! I hadn't thought pink was in their physiology! Ahh, Nord honor. So senseless…How will I ever manage to have some good fun in this place?_

"Oh, leave off, Nord. I'm teasing you." I grinned, taking pity on the man. He _had _saved me, after all. Which really, was still the matter at hand. My humor dissipated, and I glowered. After a few slow minutes, he shifted on his feet, leaning forward to look me over.

"Well, if answering questions counts for something," Ralof began, and I snapped back to attention. He came forward and sat in the chair as my side Anise had previously occupied, his shoulders relaxed. "Then tell me why went to Bleak Falls Barrow."

"I went into the barrow for three reasons. One, to find answers about the dragons. Two, to retrieve Lucan Valerius's golden claw. Three, to seek out a tablet as part of a project researching dragons being conducted by one Farengar Secret-Fire, court wizard, under the command of Jarl Balgruuf." I explained bluntly. He took a moment to process this, and then nodded. I took that chance to ask something of my own.

"What were those living corpses?" The troll's expression darkened heavily at that.

"They're called Draugr. We have legends about them." He shuffled his feet uneasily, frowning. I growled.

"You knew about those things and didn't tell me when I asked you about the barrow?" I snapped, bristling, and he turned a glare on me.

"You asked me what I knew, and I told you, elf."

"Calling a crypt 'damned creepy' doesn't constitute telling me what you know!"

"But it was the truth. No point in giving you what you'd think rumors. Didn't seem like you'd appreciate it."

"_Madness._" I hissed quietly, exasperated. "Allow me to judge the urgency of information next time, hmm, Troll?"

"Troll?" His brow furrowed, and I leered at him.

"_Troll._" I drew myself up again, collecting my fraying bits of patience. "Now, what else? You've got to have more than that."

"What did the alchemist mean when she said some of your wounds weren't 'recent'?" He questioned, and I scowled.

_So he heard that. Damnation. And I thought he'd been sleeping…_

"I have old internal damage that never healed correctly. I won't say more than that." I answered coldly, chest aching with a phantom affliction.

"Fair enough." He conceded, giving a shrug. He paused again, cocking his head as if searching for something more to ask in the ensuing tension, when his blue eyes alighted on my bare skin. His curious expression revealed itself again in a modest display of quirked brows and a keen eye. He pointed at my chest with one pale, calloused finger.

"What do those symbols mean? On your skin. What are they?" He asked, and this time, I really did give him my darkest scowl. He frowned slightly at that, opening his mouth-maybe to retract the question, or push on-but I cut him off.

"They're tattoos in the Daedric script. My people often write using the Daedric alphabet. This," I pointed at the phrase on my chest, with the boldest and largest of lettering. "Is spelled with the characters _Bedt, Ekem, Tayem, Roht, Ayem, Yahkem, Ekem, Doht. _B-e-t-r-a-y-e-d. 'BETRAYED.'"

"Betrayed." The Nord echoed, and I nodded, lips pressed in a grim line as I beat back memories with an imaginary giant's club. Damned nightmares, stirring up old ghosts so mercilessly…

_Focus on what's at hand. _

"I'll spare you the spelling, here." I indicated the multiple lines on my abdomen. "This means '_I AM DEAD_ _BY TRUST.'_" Now, the Nord too had a frown, solemn and discomforted on his face.

I extended my left arm out to him, turning it upwards to show off the soft flesh of my inner arm and the inked words there, the first letter red and traditionally overly-large, at my pulse point. He reached out, glancing at me for permission, and after an affirmative nod, ran his fingertips lightly over my skin and the stains under it. His touch was warm, the pads of his fingers rough, like my own.

"This one spells _Neht, Ekem, Neht, Ekem, Roht. _Never. And this one," I held up my right arm in the same fashion, and he retracted his hand from my other. "Spells _Ayem, Geth, Ayem, Iya, Neht. _Again. Together, they're 'NEVER AGAIN'."

"Grim." He grunted, and then pointed again. "What's that below it? Real small, there." Against their will, my eyes wandered down below the last letter in the line on my right arm to the tiny, cramped, horizontal scrawl he had indicated that I would never in my life be able to forget.

"That," I murmured quietly. "Is a name. _Adrusi._"

"Who's that?"

"Someone I can _never _forgive." I growled bitterly. Ralof gazed at me for the space of a second, and then nodded.

"Fair enough." He echoed his earlier, placating phrase. A few seconds of silence followed, neither of us filling it. Seemingly with no more questions, Ralof stood up fully then, rolling his shoulders and popping his back and neck with a low groan.

_How long has he been here, anyways? And why?_

"Well, then. That's done, eh Elf?" He said brightly, as if my life-debt was done and paid just by a few simple questions he'd obviously had to scramble to come up with. I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it. No, that is not _done. _That's no payment… But I know exactly what is. And damn me_ _for it. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I don't want to do this!_

_Yet I must._

The Nord might not be expecting anything, for all he spouted about honor, but I had my own code, and I would not leave a due unpaid; especially not one of this magnitude.

_My life for something you would give your life for._

I struggled to push myself up onto my feet, and the troll watched me with some mix of awkwardness, curiosity, and solemnity. I grit my teeth, balancing on weak, unsteady legs, and thumped a closed fist over my heart, looking him right in the eyes.

"I, Sereosa, hereby swear that I shall travel to Windhelm and take up arms with the Stormcloaks, so that I may support your cause and, in doing so, repay this life-debt. Ralof of Riverwood, do you accept this bargain?"

For a moment, his chiseled face was simply dumbfounded with surprise, blue eyes wide; but then, he shook himself slightly, shrugged a bit, and at last nodded, once, firmly.

"Aye." He rumbled, completely serious, before his lips twitched into a bare grin. "You should get some clothes on and get your rest, _comrade_. You've got a long way to go yet if you're ever going to make it to Ulfric, little elf."

"Bite me, you trollish bastard." I snapped back at him, though I found the smallest hint of good humor in his words despite my intense dislike of the entire situation.

Just then, Anise came back inside, bearing some apples and raw carrots, scrubbed clean, for us all to share. I ate without complaint, despite the bland, nasty taste of the roots, and used the peace provided by that busied quiet to calm my thoughts. When we had finished, Anise gave me a set of black robes to wear and then went bustling off again, down into her cellar, and Ralof and I were once more left to ourselves. I dressed with some minor trouble, and as the sun climbed toward its pinnacle, he bid me goodbye.

"I need to be getting back to Riverwood. Gerdur will worry." He stated as he got to his feet, breaking the silence. I blinked up at him from where I lounged on the alchemist's dingy bed.

"Very well then. I have to return to Whiterun, but after that I will go on to Windhelm as I am able."

"Aye. I'll be going on there myself, soon. My place is at Jarl Ulfric's side." He extended a hand, and I eyed it a moment, wavering, before grasping it.

"If we do not meet again in either Riverwood or Windhelm, then I say it once more: you have my thanks." I told him, and we shook hands once, firmly.

"And you've got mine, _comrade._" He snorted, and I scowled at him, ripping my grip from his. His shoulders twitched with mirth, a smile curling on his lips. My scowl deepened.

"Cheeky bastard." I muttered, watching him move to the door. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I looked out the little window to see none other than Chestnut munching stoutly on a very thick spring of wildflowers, her tail whisking to and fro.

_Ahh, that's right. Anise had mentioned the troll came 'riding up here' with me, didn't she? How much easier this makes things..._

"Oi! Ralof!" I called out, swiveling about as quickly as I could manage and reaching for my misplaced pack. A few seconds later, the Nord reappeared in the shack's doorway, blue eyes questioning, brow furrowed.

I pulled some linen and my coin purse from among my things—now chaotically disorganized, after the madness in the barrow—and withdrew a hundred septims. I wrapped the gold in the cloth and tied the bundle off, then lobbed it at the troll still staring from the door. It smacked him in the face.

I burst out laughing. Across the room, the troll swore, a hand flying to his forehead. His disgruntled glare only made me laugh harder. My sides and gut began to throb harshly, the muscles seizing, and my laughter turned into a pained groan. I doubled over and clutched at my stomach.

"Elf?" The Nord asked, his rumbling tone taking on a concerned note. I raised my head enough to bare my teeth at him.

"I'm fine." I hissed, locking my jaw and inhaling sharply as I sat up again, shocks of pain jolting through me. I nodded at the makeshift pouch at his feet rather than remove one of the comforting hands form my abdomen. "Coin, for getting my horse to me as well. Take it."

For a moment, I didn't think he would take it. He just stood there, looking at me with that coolly serene expression that seemed to be his stigmata. I narrowed my eyes at him; and he stared back.

The troll crouched down, picked up the pouch, and dropped it into the little leather bag tied to his belt. I nodded at him, a gesture he returned, and with a last gesture of parting—a simple raised hand—he departed. I sagged into the bedding with a sigh of relief, curling up tighter around my aching insides.

I lay in bed like that for a few more hours, dozing fitfully, before Anise's emergence from her little lair woke me. The lonely—and I was starting to expect slightly crazed—alchemist bid me I could stay on with her another day provided I keep out of her basement and help her collect some things to replenish her dwindled stock. With my sides still throbbing, I agreed.

Anise gave me a stamina potion to drink and took two basks outside. I glared disdainfully at the little green bottle, thinking of the slimy, earthy healing variety, and drank the thing with a grimace. I was delightfully surprised, however, to find that I actually liked them. The odd liquid was thick but smooth, like syrup or honey, and had a tangy, almost sour flavor that wasn't quite fruity. What I loved, though, was the invigorating rush that accompanied it, a pleasant sort of energy that kept up a slow, warm burn, not at all like the twisting, racing buzz of flesh mending rapidly. Grinning slightly, I eased onto my feet and grabbed my own basket, limping after Anise.

For the most part, conversation was limited. The woman would describe to me what herb or stool she required, and I in turn would ask after its purpose. She would answer me briefly each time, though sometimes it was gibbered nonsense rather than a definition. Still, I found my extremely limited alchemy knowledge greatly benefited from her chatter. Eventually, we simply went about collecting more of what was already had: Thistle, Mountain Flowers, Lavender, Mora Tapinella, Fly Amanita, Blisterwart, Nightshade, and Orange and Blue Butterfly Wings—which were admittedly fun to gather. The old healer's mumbles grew increasing more incoherent as dusk approached, turning to things of sisters and covens.

_A witch, are you? Clever old crone...Guard your power, and your secrets, Anise. I owe you as much as I do the troll, and my silence shall pay._

We retired to the dingy cottage once night fell, baskets laden with potion stock to the point of overflowing. Anise roasted some leeks and rabbit haunches with a flame spell, and offered to make me a sleeping draught once we had finished eating, but I declined immediately. The witch shrugged, warned me again to stay out of the cellar, and retreated back down into her lair, where I presumed she'd be sleeping. I doused the fire and lay down myself, exhausted from the strain of the day's meager activity.

Later that night, as I lay in the hermit witch's bed, my mind buzzed with all that had happened inside Bleak Falls Barrow. Particularly, with the mysterious wall, and the words on that wall; and what, exactly, they had done to me. It was just my luck, really, that I had gone in expecting answers to be easily obtained and rewards later granted, after which I would be sent on my way, when all I got was even more questions, and another mire of responsibilities.

_Damnation and Shadows…_

"Why me…?" I whispered sleepily, grumpily, as I slipped into a strangely subdued, quiet rest, wondering, not for the last time, what more Skyrim could possibly throw at me.

I had the distinct feeling there would be much, yet.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Tell me what you thought of this chapter, lovelies! I simply must know. No pressure, of course. *unsheathes Ebony Blade and stands here smiling*

Oh! Also, is there anyone out there that has some **tips/suggetions for writing Brynjolf? **I'm toying with a new story idea that will be BrynxOC (that's not the DB aka Ser) and idk how to start with him. Skyrim NPC's: so epic, so little depth. *cries*


	8. Dragon Rising

**A/N:  
>*You see a fiery, ghastly pit in the ground a few feet away. Issuing from it are the agonized wails of thousands of souls...children's souls.*<br>*A hand emerges, grasping at the edges like a lifeline, torn fingernails digging into dirt as its owner claws her way out*  
>*She drags herself over to you, beaten and bloody and gasping, bony fingers wrapping around your ankle as she opens her mouth to speak*<br>****"I...I-"  
><strong>**  
><strong>Have a new chapter for you all. :D *cutting the melodrama* Soooo...FUCK. It's been a month. Just...fuck me XD I gotta say guys, I had high hopes going into the year, but school and work are currently kicking my ass (and my free time) around the room. The only reason this got done was because I've had a few three-day weekends in a row *sobs*. That being said, and **THIS IS ACTUALLY IMPORTANT: **I don't know when I'll next be able to update. D: I hope to Talos it doesn't take a month again, but if it does, I'm apologizing in advanced -_-

ANYWAYS. I would like to thank _**TwistedSytem, CyanDiamondIce, ZLOT847,**_and _**CrazyLife247**_for their reviews! They really meant a lot guys! I was so happy you liked that chapter. To everyone that faved, alerted, and read, I thank you so much as well! I love you all so much! :D Also, a thousand thanks to _**eye of the divine**_for being such an awesome beta! She and I really had to work hard on this chapter, so give her some love too.

**WARNING: This chapter contains lots of blood, gore, a really bad attitude, and a ton of game dialogue INCLUDING LOTS OF DRAGON TONGUE. **In case you haven't noticed, I like to preserve quest dialogue, so if it really bothers you, tell me in a review and I'll try to cut back in the future. Otherwise, enjoy guys!

OH. And this chapter. One word: _Mirmulnir. _

* * *

><p>I peered down at the witch-healer's quickly paling corpse with a small pang of remorse for the such readily available information resource I'd had to dispose of. The witch had been old, and had possessed extensive alchemical knowledge, even if it had been frustrating making sense of the tidbits given. Moreover, she'd saved my life…<p>

_Shame she had to react with such volatility. _

I thought back on the brief encounter. I had slipped into her cellar-lair when she'd left this morning, in search of another stamina potion, as I'd been fed up with feeling so weak…

_You'll have to be careful with those things. If you don't watch yourself, you'll be on them like old Gadave Vvalen after Dra'Rak introduced him to Skooma; and look how he turned out, a hundred different debts that got him strung up by his entrails…quite a beautiful method, if lacking in originality. _

I shook myself.

_Right. Analyze._

I'd been tired of being tired and snuck into the cellar despite all Anise's warnings against such. After all, I hadn't actually promised I wouldn't.

The basement had been dank and unusually foggy with clouds of moisture, congealed clumps of herb refuse littered all over the floor . I'd found an alchemy lab, shelves and tables piled with the reagents we'd gathered yesterday, and a letter asking someone named Helgi to form a coven with her on a spill-splattered table. I'd left it there and, finding no readily brewed stamina potions, had gone back up.

However, Anise had walked back in at that exact moment—my luck really was worsening—and she had been predictably upset. Despite my attempts to inform her that I owed her my life and, therefore, my silence, she started shrieking about her secret and used a spell to try to shock me with sparks of lightning. The awful smell of burnt hair filled the little cabin as I barely managed to duck out of the way. I had then proceeded to lodge a dagger in her eye socket, her bony body promptly thudding to the floor with a muffled clatter after a single, wizened cry.

_I suppose she was indeed insane. It's as viable an explanation as I'm ever going to get now. Eh, it turned out well enough though._

Shrugging, I slipped the silver ring off the woman's pale, knobby, dirt-encrusted fingers; but left her in her robes, despite the fact that I could feel an enchantment sparking across the pads of my fingertips when I touched the fabric. I owed her some decency at least, after all she'd done for me.

I went back down into the cellar and began wrapping bundles of herbs based on what I now knew to combine. When I finished them, I rooted around for a piece of paper and some ink and wrote up a list for future reference:

_Wheat and Blisterwart, or Blue Mountain Flowers and Blue Butterfly Wings to restore health. _

_Purple Mountain Flowers, Orange Dartwings and Histicarp to restore stamina._

_Red Mountain Flowers and Tundra Cotton to fortify magicka. _

_Fly Amanatia and Snowberries to resist fire._

_Thistles and Snowberries to resist frost. _

_Falmer Ear and Imp Stool for a weak poison. _

That done, I made two of each potion with the remaining ingredients and set all of the bundles of herbs and the potions into a now-empty basket, used for gathering the supplies the day before. Balancing the load on my hip, I made my way back up the shambling ladder and outside.

_Just one more thing to do now._

It didn't take me too long to get both my pack—which was weighed down so heavily by the Dragonstone I could do little more than walk while I carried it on my back—and the basket of alchemy goodies saddled on Chestnut. Although, tying the basket securely was a bit of a chore.

When I was done, I piled up a massive pallet of firewood and went back to the witch-crone's corpse. Hooking my arms underneath pointy shoulders and thin knees, I carried her over to the pyre, laid her onto it, and set it ablaze with a flame spell. I kept up the stream until the tinder was well and surely burning, and then stopped, stepped back, and bowed my head.

"May your spirit find the family and glory you so sought among the Ancestors, Anise." I murmured, forgoing Dunmeri in favor of the deceased woman's common tongue. I paused another moment, and then mounted Chestnut carefully, mindful of my supplies, and urged the mare into a gentle trot. I wouldn't worry too much about the fire; if the rapidly gathering clouds were any indication, it was going to rain again, and soon.

_How is it, I wonder, that this land and others are not washed away in the storms?_

I took a hand from the reigns and lightly smacked myself. I was being damnably melancholic. Again.

Damned dreams, damned witch, damned rain…

Growling, I dug my heels into Chestnut's flanks, spurring her into a dangerous gallop down the foothills, stomping through patches of lovely flowers and barreling past bushes and spruces towards the churning, dismal horizon ahead. The potion bottles clanged shrilly together as we plowed on, over rocky outcroppings, down muddy banks, and through the sapphire blue rushing river, frothed with white foam.

I would drop briefly by Riverwood for my reward from Valerius, get back to Whiterun, give the pompous wizard his stone, and be on my way to slaughtering Imperials and swilling in taverns by the time the day was out, storms, dragons, and draugr be damned.

_And I'll think no more of dead things._

* * *

><p>Traveling by horse was much quicker, and I was riding up to the Whiterun Stables only about an hour later. The clouds still had not broken or spilled their burden, looming dark and foreboding above. The energy crackling subtly in the dense air sent electric shivers over my exposed skin and uneasy tingles down my spine unlike anything I'd felt before. I squinted up at the hovering gray behemoths, waiting there, as if in anticipation of prey...<p>

_Something's out there. I know it._

That, or I was being as foolishly superstitious as the Nords. Sighing, I talked the idiot stable hand into taking my horse, who did indeed look remarkably like the one that had gone missing a few days ago but surely wasn't because I'd bought her from traveling nobleman in exchange for certain _entertaining _services and well, the boy didn't really ask anything else after I said _that. _

I gave him a salacious smile and a warning that any missing belongings would be responded to with the slow removal of all his fingers and toes. I then headed for the gates, carrying only the Dragonstone in my arms and my daggers in the belt of my dress, next to my purse; everything else I left in Chestnut's bags, pieces of cloth stretched taut over the baskets' rims and tied off with a few knots, just in case.

I got a few odd looks at the tablet as I passed through the marketplace, but otherwise the trip up to Dragonsreach was largely uneventful. I still eyed everyone warily, but really it was more of something I consciously had to remind myself to do, secondary to the uneasy looks I kept swiveling up to the sky.

_Why do I feel the need to watch the skies so? Shadows and damnation…_

Giving one last baleful glare to the miserable clouds—_clouds _giving me fowl-flesh, for Ancestor's sake!—I pulled open the massive doors and slipped inside the palace.

A few serving girls swept and dusted at the entryway, while a lone guard stood sentry nearby. The rest of the hall was empty save the Dunmeri Housecarl Irileth, who stood tense at the bottom of a staircase near the throne. Her sharp amber eyes flickered to me briefly, and then away, scanning the room, her muscles relaxed but her stance alert, ready for any threat.

"…just after the Dragon Was. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other later texts." The Court Wizard's voice drifted towards me from within his study. I moved forward, intent on interrupting whatever conversation—with himself or otherwise—he was having, when another voice replied.

"Good. I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

I froze.

_That voice!_

I knew that voice. I'd heard it arguing with Orgnar over mead going stale; I'd heard it telling Byonjal that he had to pay for his drinks like everybody else; I'd heard it charging me ten septims a night and muttering about my poking around.

It was Delphine.

Slipping quickly into a crouch, I sidled up to the wall and pressed my back to it, leaning around the wide door frame just enough to see the two hooded figures standing within.

Farengar stood with his hands on his hips, next to the large standing map, while Delphine, dressed in dark, rigid leather-and-brass armor with a heavy hood falling firmly over her head to obscure her features, leaned against the table, her palms spread on either side of some book. She straightened up as they continued speaking.

"Oh, have no fear. The Jarl has finally taken an interest, so now I'm able to devote most of my time to this research."

"Time is running _out, _Farengar, don't forget." Delphine snapped back at him. "This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons _have _come back."

_How in Oblivion does she know about the dragon? Hilde seeing it was one thing, but interest like this…Wait…Dragons? Plural? Meaning _more_ than one dragon? Blood and blasted fire!_

"Yes, yes. Don't worry." His tone turned wistful. "Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be immensely valuable…" I'd pay every septim I had to watch _that _encounter. The Wizard, ripped to shreds and roasted in a dragon's maw.

"Now, let me show you something else I found…very intriguing…I think your employers might be interested as well…"

Farengar went rummaging in his papers, and I leaned back a little as he did so. Even from my limited vantage point, I saw Delphine's eyes hone in on the small movement. Her wiry form tensed.

"You have a visitor." She cut the prattling mage off sharply with the direct observation. I swallowed a growl and straightened up, walking casually, calmly, around the corner.

"Hmm?" The man's head turned in my direction. "Ah, yes! The Jarl's protégé! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow I see." He laughed a bit, surprise lacing in his tone. "Alive, it seems." Now I really did snarl at him. The man flinched back, fingers curling and skittering nervously.

_Such a coward..._

"Take your damned tablet, fool; and pay me my reward." I hissed at him, tossing the heavy stone in his direction. He fumbled precariously to catch it before it smashed to bits on the floor. Or alternatively broke all his toes; preferably the latter. While the Court Wizard spluttered, grappled and groused, Delphine's head turned in my direction.

"You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work." Her voice was very mildly impressed, her head tilting as if she were examining me…assessing me, though, I couldn't be sure without seeing her eyes under that hood. I grit my teeth in favor of baring them at her. There was no way she would so blatantly see how she riled me.

_The nerve she's got, acting as if she doesn't know me. What are you playing at bitch?_

I opened my mouth with the intention of demanding just that, but was cut off by the Housecarl's sudden appearance, her thudding boots announcing her arrival just before she ran into the room calling for the fool mage.

"Farengar! _Farengar!_" I turned to face the Dunmer woman. She was tense, a hand already on the hilt of her sword. "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby." My breath caught in my throat as I inhaled sharply.

_A dragon. A dragon. Shadows, another dragon._

Pressure built low in my throat, my body flooding with new, anxious, feral energy.

_This one will be different._

"I'm going too." I announced with a growl, stalking up to her. She nodded at me, eyes sharp. Behind us, the damned Wizard started rambling about the excitement of the situation, and Irileth admonished him for his laxness.

We were led up one of the wide staircases next to the throne, past scrambling guards, and into what appeared to be a makeshift war room. A table covered by a large map that was dotted with red and blue colored figures was to my left, two heavy doors set into the walls ahead of me and on my right. The Jarl himself stood questioning a haggard guardsman in the middle of the room.

"…tells me you came from the western watchtower?"

"Yes, my lord." The guard replied shakily. The Housecarl approached and gave the man a steady look.

"Tell him what you told me. About the dragon." She urged, and the helmeted guard nodded.

"Uh…" He seemed to gather himself. "T-that's right…it…we…We saw it coming from the south! It was fast…" He clenched his hands at his sides, tendons standing out starkly under horror-paled skin. "Faster than anything I'd ever seen."

_Damn right it is…blood and fire._

"What did it do? Did it attack the watchtower? Is it heading here?" The Jarl demanded, motioning urgently with one hand.

"N-no, my Lord. It was just circling overhead when I left." He shifted on his feet. "I-I've never run so fast in my life. Thought it would get me for sure…" The Jarl breathed deeply, his brows creasing.

"Good work, lad." He muttered, soothingly. "We'll take it from here. Go to the barracks and get some food and rest. You've earned it." The guard breathed his thanks, saluted, and hastily walked past me, down the stairs. The Jarl turned to his Housecarl.

"Irileth, you'd better get some guardsman and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster at the main gate."

"Good. Don't fail me." That said, he finally looked to me, his expression serious, direct. I jerked my chin in the other Dunmer's direction.

"I'm going with them." I stated, steel in my voice. His shoulders slumped slightly with the tiniest bit with relief.

"Good." He muttered. "You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. We'll need your help."

"I should come along. I'd like to study this dragon." The Wizard implored, speaking up for the first time. The Jarl shook his head at him.

_Too bad. Would've enjoyed a roast._

"No. I need you here, working on ways to defend the city." He turned to his Housecarl. "And Irileth, this isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with." The two underlings both acquiesced the man's command, and then Irileth and I were running out of the palace and down into the Plains District.

Outside, the clouds still hung thick, ominous, and charged overhead, while the air was completely still, tense and waiting. The city was on alert, its citizens all disappearing into their homes, the guards running about to take up their positions; and except for the occasional shouted order, the stomp of feet and rattle of plate boots, it was deathly quiet.

Just as we approached the squad of soldiers Irileth had mentioned, I grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

"I need my armor." I hissed tersely, eyes darting to the gates and the stables on the other side. The Housecarl's sharp gaze drilled into me.

"Go, then. We'll meet a little ways from the watchtower. If you arrive first, find some cover."

"Right." I agreed, throwing one last look around at she and the guardsmen before turning and sprinting for the gates. I flung myself at the heavy doors, shoved them open just enough to barrel through, and went running down the path, past the flimsy ramparts.

Out in the open, with the plains rolling out into snow-capped, craggy leviathans, the storm-tension in the stagnant air was, impossibly, even more obvious. It hung in the way the clouds consumed the sky, defying every description of 'limitless' the horizons had ever possessed, blotting out tomorrow in the Dread Father's shroud, certain to come but uncertain when and how.

Besides the pounding rhythm of my own feet, the distant bustle of armored men, and the worried whinnies of horses, it was almost dead silent. No wind blew, rushing in ears or stirring up grass songs, and no building thunder rumbled in anticipation up above. The land was deserted, the local fauna all vanished; not even a butterfly could be seen.

Everything was all just waiting, all of it. Damned waiting. A predator, poised to pounce upon prey. An axe held above, awaiting its awful abatement. A neglected noose, nagging for its next nectar. A dagger in the dark but delaying another death. Just the threat of something, waiting, just waiting…

_But waiting for what, exactly?_

Growling, I put on an extra burst of speed as I came up to the stables, flagging down the idiot stable hand just as he made to slip inside, and demanding my horse. He stuttered that he'd only had time to tether the beast in a stall before the guards had come running by, ordering citizens to their homes.

Pushing past him, I ran to the stalls and, sure enough, found Chestnut still dressed in her tack in the third stall dow. All my supplies were hanging where I'd left them her saddlebags, slung across her broad back. Her reins were looped in a loose knot over the stall's poles and I yanked them off easily.

I went right for my pack, tossing animal pelts and various pilfered goods out of the way as I scrambled to pull my armor free. I stripped out of my dress while somewhere behind me the stable boy started stammering. Donning the leathers as quick as I could, I fumbled with the buckles, anxious energy absolutely swarming under my skin.

Taking my bow off the saddle horn, I slung it and my quiver of steel arrows across my back, strapped my daggers and belt back on, and swung up onto Chestnut's back. Digging my heels sharply into her flanks, I bowed low over her back as the mare jumped forward, urged into a flat-out gallop down the road.

The western watchtower was by no means hard to spot. It jutted up straight and tall, a rectangular block of pale gray stone not even a mile away, columns of smoke making thick, obscuring mirages around it. The road led right past the scene, and on horseback, it was mere breathless minutes before I was reigning in hard, dirt and dust flying up in billows around the mare's legs, the momentum nearly throwing me off.

I stole free of the stirrups and jumped down to the ground, scurrying to pull Chestnut along behind me to the cover of some boulders near the roadside.

My gaze didn't stop moving, surveying the scene of the broken, burning watchtower as best I could and raking over the foreboding skies. It was like this that Irileth and her squad of soldiers found me, minutes later, crouched amongst the stones, watching.

"Have you seen anything?" The Housecarl queried. I shook my head silently.

"Nothing, yet." I grunted, fixing my gaze upwards now that more were here to watch about us. Irileth stuck her head around the boulder, surveying the scene.

"Sure looks like he's been here, even if there's no sign of him now." She muttered, looking around at the cloud-covered, empty skies and fiery rubble, before turning to address her little company. "I know this looks bad, men, but we've got to figure out what happened. _And _if that dragon is still skulking about…"

"It's here." I snapped at her, the edge in my voice too sharp to dull away. "It's here."I repeated. She gave me—yet _another_—severe look, and then drew her sword, signaling for her guardsman to spread out and search the rubble. I moved forward with them to the burning remnants of the building, but my head stayed tilted back just enough so that I could see both ahead of me and above me.

_Watch the skies…_

The group fanned out around the tower, drawing closer to its base. Irileth climbed right up into the stone wreckage. I drew my bow and knocked an arrow loosely.

_Watch the skies…_

A wounded man came stumbling out from within the ruin, his face scored by bloody gashes from the falling rubble. Clutching at his wounded side, he yelled that we had to get away, that it would be coming back, that it _was_coming back…

_Watch the skies…_

An echoing call, a roar, sounded distantly, like a bell peal of the sweetest, fiercest thunder in the clouds. I drew my arrow back fully and slipped into a crouching position, bracing in a stance on one knee, and aimed up, up…

"Watch the skies!" I screamed to the rest of them, and before my eyes, lightning finally rent the sky, half-blinding me to the winged, silhouetted behemoth that burst from the clouds directly overhead.

A fire of its own painted the air before it, its green-scaled maw gaping open with the release of some incredible power. It dove and circled, great wings slicing through the storm-locked air as white-hot bolts of sky-fire and sheets of torrential rain came pounding down from on high.

"_Kynareth save us!_" Someone wailed, and then Irileth was shouting orders for archers and the men scrambled for cover among the scree. The dragon swooped down as a volley of arrows flew towards it, some missing entirely as it sped by, some buffeted away by the bluff wind of its sweeping wings. It made another banking pass, circling above, a great shadow that swept by, framed by nature's wrenching sobs and pained lashes. It was primordial chaos and power both incarnate.

My hands were moving of their own violation, firing arrow after arrow at the beast as it went by. It alighted above the men and me, its wings buffeting us with downdrafts as it flapped to stay aloft.

Even as I drew back another shot, this one trained carefully at its left eye, it drew back its horned, serpentine head and drew in a deep breath. Somehow, I knew what was about to come, knew it in the strange, fiery stirring deep within me.

"Get down!" I yelled, and dove aside, rolling, as the dragon's maw snapped forward and it…roared some kind of phrase.

"_YOL!_" It bellowed and fire issued forth from nothingness to bathe the swath before it. Brilliant golden flames lit up the night with a beautifully terrifying incandescence. Somehow, I knew what the phrase, the _word, _meant, as it resounded in my ears and deep within me, resonating with that excited, restless awakening. _Fire._

I narrowed my eyes against the bright blaze, growled low, and jumped up, right into the fire, aiming towards the point where the flame was birthed. Ignoring the heat that cascaded over my skin, hot enough to burn but not enough to sear or scar with my blood resistance, I let out a breath and fired. The steel arrow went flying through the flame, and then suddenly there was a roaring cry of pain and the conflagration abated in an instant.

I snarled, knocked another arrow, and fired again, and again, and again. The dragon screamed once more, barbed shafts sticking from its face and neck and breast. It pumped its wings with fury to take it up again, away from the tower and the people and the pain. An equally furious red haze came over my vision, an angry challenge welling up in my chest like a spew of molten lava.

_Enemy. Foe. Adversary. Kin. Brother. Rival. Opponent. Challenger. Fight. Battle. Claim. Power._

"_Nikriin!_" I shrieked, unbidden, into the raging air, the furious, bloodthirsty cry foreign on my tongue. I had the distinct feeling it was an insult, a taunt issued to goad my wounded opponent back to me where he would surely die for his pride…

The dragon wheeled about high in the air, angling downwards as it dove towards me. Its jaws opened wide and once more a roar issued forth.

"_Zu'u Mirmulnir!_ _Mindok faas joorre!_" It bellowed while pulling back to slow its descent as it landed with a ground-shaking tremor before me. My vision skewed sideways as I struggled to keep my bearings, stumbling and choking on the smell of blood and smoke and the sounds of screams and shrieks. I bared my teeth in a snarl, backing up and firing a volley of arrows as the dragon advanced. More arrows assailed it from the sides, an invisible hailstorm of blackened wood and steel hidden amidst the pouring rain.

In that moment, my world narrowed in the oddest way: sounds, smells, and other senses all withdrew from around me to focus on a single target. I hardly heard Irileth or her men yelling as they scrambled around me. I hardly saw one of the guards get too close as he moved in with a two-handed blade. I hardly saw him snatched up, the whole lower half of his body easily fitting between dagger-toothed jaws, and shaken-torn-ripped to bloody pieces with every vicious twist of the dragon's head. I hardly felt the driving rain. It was just the dragon—_Mirmulnir_— and I...

_Brother fights brother…_

He was close enough now to snake his head forward and snap at me. I danced away, snarling, and tossed aside my bow, ripping my daggers free instead.

I twirled my blades in my hands, my palms going raw on the rough leather binding with how hard I gripped them. Rivulets of water streamed down my face, and I spat out a mouthful as I growled at the beast. He growled right back, a fearsome sound.

"Fear me, Mirmulnir!" I shouted, lunging forward and lashing out. My blade caught over its pointed jaw, on the impossibly hard scales, skidding over some but slicing through others, just enough to leave a shallow, weeping cut. I couldn't tell what color the blood was in the stormy darkness. I just attacked again and again in the next few seconds, slashing at the beast as quickly as I could, wherever I could, avoiding its snapping, deadly jaws.

I stumbled back as it shoved me with a wing, clipping me on the forehead. My blood must have been burning in my veins as it was, because the trickle that ran down my face felt no hotter than I did already.

Cringing as the blood blinded one eye, I lashed out again, stabbing into the membrane of the wing and holding tight as Mirmulnir tried to yank it away, tearing the thin, fibrous flesh open all on his own. He shrieked another pained, raging roar.

Both the dragon and I were tiring rapidly at this point, our fight was so vicious. I was battered and cut and aching, but now he was limping, one of only two haunches stuck so full or arrows it couldn't support him, numerous bleeding cuts across head and flank slowing him.

His head twisted around, trying to snatch me in his teeth again, forcing me away from his sides. I dove forward and rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch in front of him as his head swung back around. With a keening, victorious, beastly cry, I struck out as hard as I could at its still open mouth, slicing a scaly tongue and soft flesh.

Mirmulnir reared his head back, and I seized the opportunity. Bracing myself, I ran forward and leapt for his head, grabbing onto the abrasive horns curling from his fringe and planting my feet against the thick, corded muscle of his neck. I swung myself up and over, balancing precariously on the broad flat of his snout, which was just wide enough for me to stand on with my feet apart. His jaws opened in another roar as he tried to shake me off with whip-like thrashing motions. I scrambled for a grip on plated, rain-slicked scales, to no avail. Snarling, I desperately shoved my left hand, forearm and all, down and in to stab up at the roof of his mouth.

Aciculate teeth clamped down into my flesh in a swift sinking motion, rending it. I howled in pain even as I used the hold to keep me in place. My free right hand flew through the air, lightning glinting off my blade and Mirmulnir's dark, living-amber eyes as my dagger stabbed into one of them, bursting it with a squelching pop.

Blood and body fluids flew up, and the dragon screamed, screamed as I stretched to stab its other eye, and then its snout, the underside of its jaw, its throat, everything and anything I could reach. My mangled left hand carved into the palette of his mouth as his jaws fell slack, freeing my arm. A whole new quake of pain jolted through the limb, stinging and rushing and burning. More arrows flew over my head to stick into a magnificently bloodstained green-scaled hide.

A horrible shudder shook Mirmulnir's body, so violent it threw me off, and as I tumbled to the torn up, pitch-heated, stone-strewn earth, the dragon gave one last, agonized, terrified roar while it slumped and fell. In a twisted correlation, even as he died, the pounding rain and terrible thunder all seemed to bleed out, quietly dying with him.

"_Dovahkiin! No!_" He howled. Despite it all, despite my injuries, despite the obvious horror and pain of the creature and the burning ruins around me, the only thing I felt was triumph. Pure, unadulterated triumph, a flush of mighty victory that I had won. I was superior. He was the lesser and I the greater.

Then, as I stood there next to his motionless head, it happened.

I watched, mesmerized, as Mirmulnir's flesh began to burn up, first at the tips of his wings and tail, and then further, creeping along scaled skin and sinew. It was an otherworldly fire, supreme in its radiance, a mystical, burning, pulsing, living gold.

Flesh ascended in an enchanted ash among the flames, energy and power and heat and light all collocating over the dragon's bones; then, suddenly, the spiraling eddies of flame-and-light rose up and bored into me. My bones began to shake and my eyes flew open.

Power burned through my being, through my flesh and blood, down into my very soul; and my soul, it _screamed. _It screamed in _joy, _fierce and triumphant. Memories, sounds, colors, tastes, feelings, smells, and sights, all too numerous and many to fully comprehend, flashed through my mind. They settling there in dreamy echoes, weighed down with the knowledge of _ages. _Words filled my being in an epic chant, a tale of tongues foreign and familiar, beautiful yet awful.

The sheer, overwhelming ecstasy, the sensory overload, brought me to my knees. I dropped to the ground and convulsed once, my eyes and mouth open wide as the singing-rushing-roaring light swirled around me. The smell of cold air, purer than any other, filled my lungs, tinged with tendrils of smoke, and the taste of metal coated my tongue. Phantoms of flame and fire fluttered over my skin, where the light melded into flesh, absorbed. A hand landed on my shoulder and I screamed, because any more and I would simply shatter.

"Calm yourself!" Irileth snapped, jumping away from me. I stared up at her, fine tremors running up my body as the words kept chanting in my head.

_"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, nal ok zin los vahrin, _  
><em>wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal! <em>  
><em>Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nost hon zindro zan, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu dral!<em>

_Huzrah nu, kul do od, _  
><em>wah aan bok lingrah vod, <em>  
><em>Aahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein!<em>

_Wo lost fron wah ney dov, _  
><em>ahrk fin reyliik do jul, <em>  
><em>voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein!<em>

_Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah, _  
><em>tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein! <em>  
><em>Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, <em>  
><em>voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!<em>  
><em><br>Nuz aan sul, fent alok, _  
><em>fod fin vul dovah nok,<em>  
><em>fen kos nahlot mahfaeraak ahrk ruz! <em>  
><em>Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin kos fin saviik do muz!<em>

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, nal ok zin los vahrin, _  
><em>wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal! <em>  
><em>Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nost hon zindro zan, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu dral!<em>

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin! Dovahkiin!"_

"..._Dovahkiin._" I gasped hoarsely, digging my fingers into the churned dirt and swiveling my gaze back to stare glassily at the enormous skeleton of Mirmulnir.

"I can't believe it…" One of the guards, a fair man with a mustache and a horned leather helmet on his head, murmured, awe heavy in his voice. "You…elf, you're…Dragonborn…"

_Dragonborn. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn. Dovahkiin._

"What do you mean?" I croaked coarsely, tottering to my feet so I could face him. He held a torch in one hand, likely a piece of burning tinder from the wreckage, and its fire seemed dull in comparison to the flame-light. "What's '_Dragonborn_'?" I demanded. The man scuffed his feet, his eyes flickering up, searching memory.

"…In the very oldest tales," He began, a bit slow at first, but gaining strength. "Back when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power." His worshipful, haggard eyes darted between the dragon's remains and me. "That…that's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"

_As if I bloody fucking know what just happened to me._

"I don't know." I hissed at him, limping over to Chestnut as the dear thing came trotting boldly up the road to the battlefield.

I opened my bags, pawed painfully through them for some strips of linen, and moved to tie off my wounded arm at the shoulder with my teeth. However, Irileth stopped me with a hand once more. She took the makeshift bandages from me with a hard, no-nonsense look. Glaring, I held still, gritting my teeth as she wrapped the deep gashes in cloth tightly. The process was probably aligning the fractured bones in my arm; or at least, that's how it felt as the stinging sensation turned into a sharp shooting pain. I half-screamed as the bone snapped back into place under the pulsing red of a particularly deep laceration.

Irileth's hands worked quickly and mercilessly to ensure the binding was tied properly, so that the right amount of pressure was applied all along my now throbbing arm. Blood began seeping through the thin, porous material even as her fingers dropped away. Silently, I hoped that the bone had broken cleanly. I'd seen what happened to those either unlucky or foolish enough to end up with splintered limbs.

_Almost always fatal, that, and never pretty._

"There may be a way to find out for sure." The guard who'd been speaking of legends came up beside us, his comrades trailing, their own conversations about the Dragonborn topic popping up. "Try to Shout. _That _would prove it: according to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the same way the dragons do."

"What in Oblivion is a 'Shout'? Speak plainly, man!" I groused, turning to look at him. He shrugged.

"Shouts, or the Voice," He explained, and the latter term raised a flag in my memory. So Ulfric Stormcloak could use this alleged power? "Are phrases in the dragon's language that have great power. Like I said, only the Dragonborn can use them without training."

"Dragonborn? What are you talking about? That's insane." One of the other guards suddenly interjected.

"No it's not. My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn." My informative fellow argued. "They're those born with the Dragon Blood of Tiber Septim himself."

"I've never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

"There weren't any dragons back then, idiot. They're just com—"

"Enough!" I snarled at them. "If all this madness has any truth, then I should be able to do this…Shouting, you said?"

"That's right."

"No, that's crazy talk." The other muttered grouchily.

"What do you say, Irileth? You've been quiet." One of the other men asked the Dunmer at my side. She granted each one of them a cool, pointed look, and motioned to the bones behind us.

"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums about matters you don't know anything about." I decided right then I liked the woman. "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I can understand. Now we _know _we can kill them." Her cold eyes moved to me. I stared right back, lifting my chin. "But I don't need some _mythical _Dragonborn. Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

"Well spoken." I commented. "Though you'd be equally foolish to disregard a possible explanation for such unexplainable events." She huffed, but inclined her head at me and tied off the bandages. I took out a healing potion from the basket I'd made up at Anise's and gulped it flesh of my arm crawled unnaturally as it knit back into some semblance of order, bone grinding together. I shivered.

"Neither of you would understand." The original guard said seriously. "You ain't Nords."

"Thank Azura for that…" I muttered, then shook my head. "Listen up. Arguments aside, I need to know more. You think I could Shout. Do you know how?"

"No idea." He shrugged. I growled quietly, and then sighed.

_Think. What did it all have in common? The dragons. Where did they take you—where did the voices send you? To Bleak Falls Barrow, after the Dovahgloz. And what happened at Bleak Falls bloody Barrow? You fought through a damned crypt full of Draugr, got chewed on by Skeevers, killed a thief, solved a puzzle…Went into that room…found the wall…the wall with the words._

_The word._

"The words on the wall…" I breathed, my eyes widening in realization. That was it. _That _was one of these…these phrases. It wasn't runes, it was a language. The _dragon tongue. _And the words…they were this power, these Shouts. The one I'd found in the barrow was still there in my mind, natural as breathing, alien as a tumor, and branded onto my very soul…

The more I thought about the word, the more it filled me. Power built in my chest and my lungs, swelling against my ribs, my spine, trying to claw its way free. It was an incredible pressure that _must be released_. A terrible, mighty force. I didn't even have to think anymore. There was only the action of drawing a breath and letting go.

"_FUS!_" I Shouted, and a visible, warping blast of bluish energy, pure force, slammed into the guardsman, staggering him back a few paces and sending little pebbles and clouds of dust flying.

As soon as the word passed my lips, a deep, aching breathlessness stole into my chest, and I gasped for air, fatigue washing over me. I staggered and clutched at Chestnut's bridle as the men and even Irileth all turned to stare at me.

"That…That was _Shouting!_" The believer exclaimed in mixed excitement and astonishment. "That must have been! You…You _really _are Dragonborn then!" His face was so earnest I wanted to smack the expression clean off, but I was much too weary. No one said anything for a long moment, and then Irileth shook her head.

"Get back to Dragonsreach and report to the Jarl." She commanded, but I shook my head.

"I'm examining the corpse first." I stated even as I walked away from her, pulling Chestnut with me. It was doubtful I could divine many answers from utterly bare bones, but the effort was worth it in the anatomical information alone.

The entire skeleton, from the tip of the nose to the end of the tail, was about three-and-a-half horse lengths—Chestnut was quite helpful for this measurement. It was difficult to say just how "tall" a dragon was, but I knew at least that their heads were a foot or so above my height when they crawled along the ground. That was another thing: the beast had no forelegs, only the claw-like appendages on the bone-tipped peaks of its wings, like those of bats, and two thick, powerful hind legs.

Each of its feet had fearsome bone claws thicker around at their base than my head, almost as long as my entire arm, and sharper than my daggers. Similarly, vicious spikes of various, terrible sizes ran all the way down the spine. A neat myriad of long, angled horns protruded from the top of a lizard-like skull—Mirmulnir had four horns himself, two sets, one larger and curling at the ends, and another short and spiking out from below the superior set.

As I moved down the body, I counted ten ribs—with the assumption I was starting at the ribcage…flesh really would have been nice about now—and found that, at the sixth rib, there rested a small trove of treasures. The helmet, uniform, and remaining fleshy bits of an eaten Whiterun guard, assorted scraps of fur and meat, several arrows, a pair of hide boots, a shiny, deep red garnet, and an ecstasy-inducing mass of gold.

_Clearly, dragons have good taste! …Ah, a pun. I'm more exhausted than I thought I was. Gods above…_

I collected the gold, jewels, and arrows from what must have been the stomach—or where it was located, as it were—and continued on to inspect the sharp bone barbs of the tail and then back up to the fascinating wing bones.

As I paced past the ribs again, around the other side, I noticed two on the right were cracked, and one was even broken, shattered into three smaller bits. Squinting in the cloudy dark at the ground, I saw large, plate-like pieces, scales perhaps, a handful of them scattered here and there. Bending down I, picked one of the plates up, finding it hard as—if not harder than— steel, the razor edges of the individual scales scythe-like. It was quite heavy in my hand, and upon inspecting the bone fragments, I found them to be even harder, sharper, and heavier. None of the energy from before could be felt in the materials, stolen completely, as it seemed, but they were durable and unlike any other, surely…

_Possibly useful. And if not, trophies._

I gathered up the three bone pieces and rooted around in the dirt until I found two more scales, so that I had three of each. I put them all in the saddlebags with the rest of my haul and climbed carefully up onto Chestnut.

Once settled, I clucked at her, rubbing her neck, and set her at a gentle walk away from the guards, the Housecarl, the ruined tower, and the dead dragon, on to the road.

My poor, sweet, over encumbered mare and I had only been meandering painfully along for a few peaceful moments when a rumble rent the air. Sound exploded and cracked, breaking _something_, perhaps space itself. Everything, the air, the earth, my bones and soul, trembled with the force of it. The almighty echo reverberated across the sky, seeming to originate from high, high up above and very far away, though the impact was still so great. It was as if the world itself was recoiling from the noise.

"_DOV-AH-KIIN!_" The sound tore into all, somethings and nothings, tore right into me, because it was me it was coming for. I clamped my hands over my ears and hunched over, but it was utterly useless, and the summons thrummed through me still, so intensely.

And then, it was over. Fading, no more than the memory of an echo on the wind, but for me, and any other who had heard so supremely. I blinked and shifted and cringed, realizing that the entire harrowing experience had lasted no more than a few seconds for all the awful power it had contained.

_The world is going completely mad…Dragons, souls, Shouts, sounds ripping through existence…What by all the blasted, blessed, bloody Shadows is happening to me?_

I shuddered, hunched my shoulders, and kicked Chestnut back into motion. I thought of the voices in my dreams, of Mirmulnir, of the Words, of this Dragonborn myth, and of the dragon's tongue. I replayed the moment at the wall in my mind, pondered the word _Fus_, lived once more the most recent, inexplicable battle with a legendary beast that in the reaches of my mind still held the title 'brother'.

I carefully considered the black dragon form Helgen, Ralof's mutterings of the End Times, the partial conversation between Farengar and Delphine. I meditated on it all as my mare took us slowly back to the city; and when I was done, and had many connections, but no more answers, I filed it all neatly aside and focused on my anger, because it was easier.

I thought instead of the pain in my limbs, of the annoyance of every fool in Dragonsreach, of my fury at my situation, of the blasted bard in Riverwood, of the Imperials and the Stormcloaks both. I even willfully dredged up the cataclysmic memories of the years past, of Adrusi, because I needed the rage. I needed the wrath to beat back the confusion and the helplessness, because I would not allow myself to be drowned in them. Not again.

So it was that, when I rode right through the gates on my horse, up to the steps of Dragonsreach, and burst into the palace—the disturbance seemed to be but another amid still anxious activity—I was so full of sharp, burning anger that my blood was close to boiling. I could think, I could act, and I could do it without hesitations or reservation, and that was what mattered.

The foolish, crook-nosed advisor was pacing in front of the fires when I came striding up. His bland, pensive expression tempered somewhat with relief when he saw me.

"You're back! Good. The Jarl's been waiting for any news you bring." He spun on his heel and approached the throne where Balgruuf reclined once more, his scarred hands tight on the arms of his chair. He was talking with a taller, gruff man in heavy hides, arguing, if the tension was any indication.

"…eard the summons. What _else _could it mean?" The Jarl demanded of the other man, his voice trailing wistfully, reverently. "The _Greybeards…_"

It seemed his companion noticed me before the fool ruler did, because he turned to me in the middle of a sentence, breaking off.

"You. Good. We were just talking about you. My brother needs a word with you." He indicated the Jarl. _That _raised my brows. The two looked nothing alike. But the musings were for later, and Balgruuf was all business, as he should have been.

"Well? What happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?" He asked, looking up at me with hard, dark eyes. I nodded stiffly.

"It was there. The watchtower has been destroyed—fires and ruins, now. The beast is dead, though; we killed the damned thing, and I struck the last blow myself." Despite the news of the tower, he was visibly relieved, some of the rigid alertness in his frame melting away that moment.

"I knew I could count on Irileth and you." He murmured, almost smiling, but then the expression slipped away and the tautness was back. "But there must be more to it than that."

_Either the bastard's doubting my abilities, or he knows something I don't. Was it the sound? Does he know what it was, what it means? …Whatever it was, it cried 'Dovahkiin'. Perhaps the fool will know more of this Dragonborn nonsense…_

"When the dragon died," I began evenly, clenching my fists against the tremors in my hands. "I absorbed some sort of power from it. One of the men claimed it was the dragon's soul. He called me 'Dragonborn.'"

At any other time, the widening of eyes and slight parting of lips as jaws dropped a single, dignified inch may have been amusing. Now, it only irritated. I leveled a glare at the man as he regained himself in quickly.

"So it's true…" He breathed. "The Greybeards really _were _summoning you."

"What or who in the blasted Void are the Greybeards?" I snarled at him. I was practically sick to my stomach with all these Nordic tales…

"They are Masters of the Way of the Voice." The Voice again; so these people were masters of this Shouting power? "They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

_The largest mountain in Tamriel…Damnation._

"What do these Greybeards want with _me_?" I hissed, narrowing my eyes. The burning clarity, the anger, was rapidly morphing into blind annoyance.

"The Dragonborn," The Jarl explained, tone taking on the barest hush of a narration told to a child. "Is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice—the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you _really _are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift." _That_caught my interest.

_So not only would these Greybeards have information about the dragons and this Dragonborn legend, but they could also teach me to harness this incredible Shouting power? That just might be worth climbing the Shadows-damned mountain for…_

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound when you returned to Whiterun?" Balgruuf's brother asked beside me.

"Indeed I did." I muttered, my fingers fluttering at my sides uncomfortably, itching to grip the handles of blades. I didn't want to remember the sound.

"_That _was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn't happened in centu…" I stopped listening.

_The Greybeards? That awful power was these Greybeards? Simply using this Voice ability, to do _that, _from the Throat of the World? How strong _are_ these masters…? And could I do the same…?_

The three men—Balgruuf, Hrongar, as he called his brother, and Avenicci the damned steward—had been arguing with each other while I was ignoring them, but now the Jarl addressed me directly again.

"Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If _they _think you're Dragonborn, then who are we to argue?"

_Ahh. So that's what it was about. Fools…_

"You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately." He said, not quite a command, though it carried the weight of one enough that it rankled. "There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor."

"I don't give a damn about honor, Jarl Balgruuf." I growled, staring down at him. "I care about survival, power, and profit. If they offer me all, then I will go." He didn't seem too offended, perhaps used to being treated like the fool he was.

"Then you'll be climbing the Seven-Thousand Steps, all the way up the mountain." He returned easily, and it almost sounded like he was mocking me, the bastard. "I made the pilgrimage once, myself. High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place…disconnected from the troubles of the world. I sometimes wonder if the Greybeards even notice what happens down here; they've never seemed to care before."

"And they shouldn't start now." I muttered, and his eyes narrowed at me just the slightest. He grunted out a huff.

"No matter our opinions. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you. This is my counsel." He paused, but I didn't acknowledge the statements.

"And?" I demanded flatly, glaring. He almost smirked again, raised an eyebrow.

"And," He continued solemnly. "You've done a great service this day to my city, Dragonborn. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It is the greatest honor within my power to grant."

My eyes must have nearly bugged out. His lips twitched upwards at the ends. The blasted bastard was making me a bloody _Thane?_ By the Shadows, _no! _I wanted _gold_! Nothing, _nothing _to do with _damned nobility. _No politics, no nobles, no power plays, no, no, _no!_

But of course, the damned man _just kept talking._

"I assign you Lydia, as a personal Housecarl, and," A guard came up with a faintly shimmering axe. "this weapon from my armory, to serve as your badge of office. I'll also notify my guards of your new title, so you're not taken as one of the common rabble." He stood, extending the war axe. "It is an honor to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

I looked between the weapon, then him, and then around at the far-too-numerous guards and general witnesses. Murder just wasn't an option right now, however tempting it may be to swing the proffered axe at his face…Snarling, I snatched the axe away from him, practically threw it over my shoulders, and spun away, storming down the hall and down the steps.

Before I got to the door, a woman with long, nutty hair and dark eyes, dressed in fur-lined steel plate stepped into my path. I didn't stop, and she didn't move; rather, she saluted to me briefly as I drew closer.

"Greetings, my Thane. The Jar has appointed me as your Housecarl. It's an hono—" She was cut off as I wound my arm back and punched her smack in the face as hard as I could. There was a delightful crunching-cracking underneath my knuckles as her nose shattered and she fell away from me with a little shriek, a gush of blood trailing in the air.

Someone shouted something, but I was already barreling through the heavy wooden doors and glaring murderously at anyone that dared to look at me so viciously they quailed away. I half-ran out of Dragonsreach, down the turning stone stairs, and down into Whiterun's marketplace.

_Damn Skyrim. Damn the dragons. Damn the Jarl, this fucking city, and the bloody people. Damn the Words and the Shouts and the blasted Greybeards. And damn this Dragonborn insanity._

I beat it all firmly back, because right now, I didn't give a damn. Right now, I needed a drink. _Wine_, and plentyof it.

* * *

><p>Clumsily locking the door of the room I'd been given the day before behind me, effectively shutting out the noise of the inn, I took a few uneven steps forward. My limbs felt like iron, my head was full of cotton, my tongue and throat limp and bloated, and my vision swayed precariously as I staggered onwards into my bedchamber. There was a surge of dizzying vertigo that didn't let up even when I flopped onto the bedspread.<p>

I kicked off my boots carelessly and curled on my side, uncaring of anything but the muddle of nausea-inducing sensations, the blessedly soft bed, and my incredible tiredness.

Grumbling, I faded away into sleep.

* * *

><p><em>It was cold. Bitterly cold. But it was oddly easy to recall that it was different from before…whatever before was. The cold was familiar, and it didn't bite quite so harshly anymore. In fact, it was almost…pleasant. The wind, too, wasn't slicing or cutting; it was less like a razor and more akin to a firm, sheltering touch, wrapping around me like a pair of arms in embrace. <em>

_And, I could feel more. Not just the cold and pain, but also…warmth. Radiating. Other presences that seemed both threats and reassurances, friends and foes. An equilibrium…_

_"Dovahkiin…niid…Brinnah. Un brinnahu. Un brit bruniik Brinnahu. Drem Yol Lok. Lost kah, Brinnahi. Hin mulaag losmeyz fundein. Aal mindok ahkrin nu, Brinnah, Dovahkiin, fadhoni…"_

_"Brinnahu…Fadhonu…Hokoronu…Ahu…Qahnaarinu…Fronu… Aal mindok ahkrin…"_

_The voice-many-voices was kind, echoing in my ears, nurturing, acknowledging, and fiercely proud. Its words were different now, too, in their meaning. They had more depth…and though I still could not translate, still did not know…somehow…somehow I understood. I was being welcomed._

_I was finally home._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Translations:**

_Nikriin _- Coward

_"Zu'u Mirmulnir!_ _Mindok faas joorre!"_- "I am Mirmulnir! Know fear, mortals!"

_Mirmulnir (Mir-Mul-Nir) _- Loyal Hunter (lit. Allegiance-Strong-Hunt)

_"Dovahkiin…niid…Brinnah. Un brinnahu. Un brit bruniik Brinnah. Drem Yol Lok. Lost kah, Brinnahi. Hin mulaag losmeyz fundein. Aal mindok ahkrin nu, Brinnah, Dovahkiin, fadhoni…" _- "Dragonborn...No...Sister. Our sister. Our beautiful, savage Sister. Greetings. (Peace-Fire-Sky) Have pride, my Sister. Your strength has come unfurled. May you know courage now, Sister, Dragonborn, friend..."

_"Brinnahu…Fadhonu…Hokoronu…Ahu…Qahnaarinu…Fronu… Aal mindok ahkrin…" _- "Our sister...Our friend...Our enemy...Our hunter...Our vanquisher...Our kin...May you know courage..."

And yes, you even get the Dragonborn song. Lmao...

_"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, nal ok zin los vahrin, _  
><em>wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal! <em>  
><em>Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nost hon zindro zan, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu dral!<em>

_Huzrah nu, kul do od, _  
><em>wah aan bok lingrah vod, <em>  
><em>Aahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein! <em>

_Wo lost fron wah ney dov, _  
><em>ahrk fin reyliik do jul, <em>  
><em>voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein! <em>

_Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah, _  
><em>tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein! <em>  
><em>Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, <em>  
><em>voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!<em>  
><em><br>Nuz aan sul, fent alok, _  
><em>fod fin vul dovah nok,<em>  
><em>fen kos nahlot mahfaeraak ahrk ruz! <em>  
><em>Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin kos fin saviik do muz!<em>

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, nal ok zin los vahrin, _  
><em>wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal! <em>  
><em>Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nost hon zindro zan, <em>  
><em>Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu dral!"<em>

"Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honor is sworn,  
>To keep evil forever at bay!<br>And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout,  
>Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!<p>

Hearken now, sons of snow, to an age, long ago,  
>and the tale, boldly told, of the one!<br>Who was kin to both wyrm, and the races of man,  
>with a power to rival the sun!<p>

And the Voice, he did wield, on that glorious field,  
>when great Tamriel shuddered with war!<br>Mighty Thu'um, like a blade, cut through enemies all,  
>as the Dragonborn issued his roar!<p>

And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold,  
>that when brothers wage war come unfurled!<br>Alduin, Bane of Kings, ancient shadow unbound,  
>with a hunger to swallow the world!<p>

But a day, shall arise,  
>when the dark dragon's lies,<br>will be silenced forever and then!  
>Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin's maw,<br>Dragonborn be the savior of men!

Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honor is sworn,  
>To keep evil forever at bay!<br>And the fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph's shout,  
>Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!"<p> 


	9. The Withered Tree

**A/N: **Annnnd I take forever again. Argh. My apologies everyone. But look at it this way: I'm giving you a chapter to make up for it ;)

A thousand thanks to **_TwistedSystem_** for her review! I love ya, Lexi. You say somethin' nice every chapter, and it makes my day. :D

Another thousand thanks to my dear beta, _**eyeofthedivine** _for all her hard work! Love you Lu!

***Attention please. I have some questions for you guys that are important. Even if you don't normally review, PLEASE just take a few seconds to type 'yes' or 'no' in the comment box. Thank you!***

* * *

><p>Waking up the next morning was one of the more emotionally conflicted times in my life. I was utterly torn between a foul hatred for everyone and everything around me, and a bone-deep yet somehow distant sense of belonging.<p>

On the one hand, I felt like a three-week old corpse left at the side of the road: beaten, trodden on, and rotting. I reeked of rancid wine and vomit, I was covered head-to-toe in dirt and blood, and sleeping in my filthy armour had only added to the innumerable muscle pains I now had the pleasure of experiencing for the rest of the day.

Plus, I had a splitting headache that throbbed sharply with every beat of my heart, I was thirsty enough to drink a whole barrel of water, and the thought of food made my abused stomach roil violently even though I was dizzy from not eating. And all that was just physical. There was yet the "Thane of Whiterun" and "Dragonborn" lunacy to be dealt with, and had it not hurt to think too much, I may have been frothing at the mouth in fury already.

On the other hand, there was a distinct feeling of steadiness in my chest and the balls of my feet, something assured and stable, like the earth underfoot. Not all the questions I had had been answered, but I no longer felt quite so…adrift.

I recalled the dream with a perfect clarity that was not granted to me in my others. I remembered exactly the words the voice had said, and even in some way their meaning. I thought of the way the voice had sounded both sorrowed at a brother's loss and unreservedly accepting of the new sister that had at last come to where she was meant to be.

It wasn't a peaceful sensation, and it wasn't warm—there was no camaraderie so much as there was just a place, a certainty. I, like all my kin, would not necessarily be cared for or called friend, because it was not our nature; but I was one of them, one of many, and that was enough. It was fantastical, foolish, and unexplainable, but that single surety was incredibly precious in its simple, grounded ease.

Thus properly and rather cruelly conflicted what with how dearly I was paying for drinking myself halfway into Oblivion last night, I dragged myself out of the bed and took stock of my abused extremities.

My left arm hurt like a bitch, and the shoddy wrapping Irileth had done in the dark last night was simultaneously sticky and dry with blood and pus that emitted a putrid odor. My legs were covered in scratches and burns, my face was equally messy, and my chest was a checkerboard of bruising—more likely than not, something was broken. _Again._

Clearly, I needed a healer... Or another drink.

Grumbling, I haphazardly pulled on my boots and staggered out of my room. The Redguard serving girl—Salia? Sadiba? No… _Saadia_—had the decency—or, perhaps, the experienced immunity to this kind of situation—to not comment as I stumbled past her down the obnoxiously creaking wooden stairs looking like I'd been dragged behind a horse for a few miles after a brutal flogging.

Which begged the question...

_What in Oblivion happened to my horse…?_

Thinking was an agonizing endeavor that really hurt too much. I groaned, rubbed my head, and cringed as I entered the common room, where the light from the fire burned my eyes and the cacophony of the strum of a lute assaulted my ear drums and garroted every nerve ending in my brain. Squinting, I fumbled out my dagger, stomped over to the light-blurred man singing by the fire, and shoved him as hard as I could.

The pale, long-haired man fell over the bench next to him with a cry and a clatter and another harshly discordant twang of strings and the sound of splintering wood that all had me grabbing at my ears. Lips pulled back in pain, I dropped down on the balls of my feet next to him and brought the edge of my dagger's blade to his throat before his indigent caterwauls could go any further.

"You will be _absolutely silent_, or you _will die._Understand?" I hissed at him hoarsely, my throat dry. The man nodded, wide eyed, his chin tapping the edge of my blade with the motion. I stood stiffly, glancing around for disapproving witness, but Hulda just kept cleaning behind her bar, maybe she hated him too.

Moving away and sheathing my dagger as the damned bard scrambled up and for the door, I slid onto a stool at a table in the corner of the room with my back leaning against the wall. Now that everything hurt a bit less with the quiet, I could get something to eat and drink; and when my head stopped throbbing, I'd hunt down a means to heal my wounds. A potion just wasn't going to cut it for my arm, unfortunately...

_The temple in the Wind District, then. One of Kynareth's, if memory serves…_

There was a series of seemingly pounding footsteps, and then a loud thud on the table that exacerbated the throbbing sensation behind my eyes more than the glare from the fire did. I glanced up to see Saadia there, placing a steaming bowl, a plate with bread, and a tall tankard of water before me. The wafting steam carrying up the scent of heady meat and pungent herbs made my insides squirm. I stared at her dumbly, and her lips quirked into a slight smile at me.

"Beef broth and bread, nothing too bad with how terrible you look. Hulda says it's on her. Nothing less for the new Thane that saved the city." If I wasn't so grateful, I probably would have stabbed her. As it was, I nodded my thanks appreciatively and tried to ignore how her voice rattled around in my head.

"Thank you both." I muttered, pulling the dishes closer and wincing as they shrieked across the wood as she walked away. The rich scent of meat wafted in my direction, and my stomach rumbled in both anticipation and dread.

I gulped down the water and then nibbled on the food. The broth was warm, salty, and rich, and when I tore the bread apart, a waft of delicious, yeasty steam tickled my nose as the thick crusts crackled a bit too loudly for comfort. The heat on my fingertips was pleasant, and I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling as I chewed in an attempt at tuning out all my aches and pains.

_Mmmm…warm…_

_Warm…warm like fal krein on viingge...faad viintaas on scales, shul seeping_  
><em>into bones…the ven cold of lok in snout and tongue…<em>

I jolted, my eyes flying wide and the bread falling from my fingers and tumbling from the table to the floor.

_That memory…wasn't mine. It wasn't mine! Blood and Shadows, it wasn't_  
><em>mine! <em>

Panic stirring in my chest, I tore a dagger once more from its sheath at my belt and stabbed it into the meaty flesh of my outer thigh. Across the room, I heard Hulda gasped and swore. Saadia came from the kitchen at the sound, features drawn in tense alarm as she looked expectantly around the room. I took it all in even as I tried to focus on the pain in my leg and the warm blood wetting my skin and dampening my leggings.

_Warm blood…the laas bleeding from niri as sos left slen. Krongrah in the krii…_

"No." I growled lowly, digging the blade in a little deeper. Red stained the pale wood of my stool. "No. Focus."

"What are you doing?" The innkeeper demanded shrilly, obviously alarmed, as she came bustling from behind the counter, hands fluttering from her skirts. "Stop that!"

_Focus. Focus! Here and now. The Bannered Mare. Hulda. Saadia. Your injured arm. The knife in your thigh. Pain in your body. Your blood._

_Dovahsos_…_Dragon's blood._

_No!_

I swayed where I sat, faintly dizzy, a low, throbbing pulsing in the base of my neck, and my shoulders. My fingers and toes were tingling.

"Saa…get th…ealer…Danic…go!" Her voice was muffled, as if I were underwater.

_Did I knick the artery…? No…not enough blood spurting for that…Damn it…what's….going…on…?_

Darkness began encroaching on my vision, and roaring filled my ears, pulling me under. But not the roaring of blood I was intimately familiar with.

Oh, no. It was the roaring of dragons.

The blackness converged.

* * *

><p>I awoke to the smell of lavender and incense. The air was hot and stuffy, permeated with the sweet scents and heavy with the dense heat of too many candles in a confined space.<p>

No blood…no metal…no ash or snow….not even wood smoke or ale. Just the lavender and incense…

I groaned low in my throat, the whine rumbling in my chest. The air was so heavy…the odd warmth, the smells, the quiet…it all reminded me much of the temples in Morrowind.

"Are you rightfully awake?" A woman's voice inquired somewhere nearby in a Nordic accent heavier even than the thick air. I peeled my eyelids back with some difficulty, feeling every grain of grit against my eyes as I did so, not really wanting to wake. I felt too good right now for change.

Wooden beams and colored sunlight swam into my vision, a backdrop to the fair, softly stern face of a Nord woman, half-hidden under a yellow hood more common to priest's garb. Her features were reminiscent of a dulled knife, sharp in structure but softened with experience. She had a pointed nose and deep smile-lines, and her pale blue eyes glinted with a keen intellect under the benevolent shadow of a concern-creased brow.

I groaned in reply to her query, slitting my eyes against the light as I stared up at her. I really didn't want to get up.

"That would be a 'yes', I take it." She spoke again. An unblemished hand adorned by one dimly twinkling, golden ring came up to dab a cool cloth at my face. It was refreshing, and to my slight shame, I let out a low hum. She smiled slightly at hearing my utterance.

"If you feel up to it, you can sit up for me, nice and slow, and then we can get you something to drink." The priestess continued. I thought about it for a moment, thirst warring with laziness, but in the end necessity won out, as it always would. Shifting my heavy arms, I braced myself and carefully sat up, expecting some pain, though none was found. My brow furrowed with the ensuing dizziness as the room righted itself.

The space was lovely, all cleanly washed wooden floors, and simple yet beautiful adornments befitting any temple, as I could now see it was. The sloping, pale, lilac-colored shrine characteristic of Kynareth to my right was, after all, quite the giveaway.

Most of the space was an open, circular floor ringed by several sickbeds, one of which was occupied by a wounded man; the other two were empty. A charming nook in one wall provided a living space and bedroom—likely for the priest—and many beds of vibrant, blooming  
>lavender lined the walls and sat between pillars.<p>

I looked to my side for the priestess. She was dressed in plain, cotton robes, dyed a monkish yellow-orange, which hung snugly from her frame. She was tall, even for a Nord, but slimmer, a figure matching her healing fingers.

_Sort of like Isun—_

_No._

Gritting my teeth hard, I brought a hand up to touch my temple, as if the motion could physically stop my thoughts. A slight pull at the skin of my arm as I did so gave me pause. The priestess watched me critically.

"I've spent the last day and a half healing you. You've been down for awhile, so you may feel dizzy, or nauseous. Is there any pain?" She asked calmly, and I shook my head slowly.

"N-no…" I croaked out, my voice oddly hoarse. Had I been screaming? "No pa-ain. Skin tight." The woman nodded.

"That would be the scarring. I healed your arm—that was a sloppy job, by the way—and your other injuries."

"What all?"

"There was your mangled arm, some cracked ribs," She went about getting a pitcher of water as she spoke, and I took the offered drink gratefully. "Some burns on your face, chest, and hands, lots of lacerations, and that self- inflicted stab wound in your thigh. You're foolish." She admonished.

"Desperate, not foolish, priestess; though one is no worse than the other." I muttered, correcting her as I sipped at the cool water. "You have my thanks…" I trailed off, raising my brows in a silently questioning fashion.

"Danica Pure-Spring. Priestess of Kynareth." She introduced herself, back straightening slightly. I nodded in acknowledgement.

"You have my thanks, Priestess Pure-Spring."

"Danica is well enough, Thane."

"Danica, then. And none of that 'Thane' blasphemy. I am Sereosa, and no more."

"They call you other things, Sereosa." She murmured as she took a seat at the tiny table against the wall, just away from the bedside. I swung my legs over the edge of the wooden bed frame so that I could face her.

"I assume you refer to the Dragonborn title?" At her nod, I scowled. My tone turned acerbic, biting and harsh. "It's nonsense, and I'll have no part of it either."

"I would counsel you to consider carefully, Sereosa. It is the blood of Akatosh in your veins, and the wind of Kynareth in your spirit. To be Dragonborn is to be a child of the gods." She stated sagely, if a tad intensely. I shook my head. If she wasn't a priest, I would have deemed her just as naively superstitious as the other locals.

"Nay, Danica. My blood is laced with fire, and my spirit is ashes…ashes with favor for jewels and gold, yes, but ashes still." I muttered darkly as I peeled back the soft sleeve of a cotton dress and went about examining my arm curiously.

The priestess had spoken true of scarring, for certain. Large, puckered, circular stabs of scar tissue ran up my forearm, reaching all the way to the meaty flesh before my shoulder. The spots were arranged in a neat, curving line, had the slightly indented appearance indicative of teeth marks, and were a dark, angry red. Turning my arm around at all different angles, I saw the pretty little punctures marched in tandem down either side of the limb.

_So, this is what a dragon's bite looks like. Oh, joy. Bloody, flaming joy._

"It couldn't be healed completely. I'm sorry." Danica said in a weighted tone that implied experience with such generally decimating news. Her mouth was set with a certain frustration I assumed could only be irritation on her part; perhaps she felt each permanent wound or deceased patient an insult to her skill.

"I've no care for apologies, priestess. As long as my arm functions fine, any appearance is useless to me." It was true, for the most part. The only detriment any ugliness would be would apply to the more provocative seduction tactics I enjoyed; and I had no doubt I could bypass any shortcomings of my appearance with skill alone.

_Besides, you're in Skyrim. The Nords likely find scars sexy…and probably have plenty of their own…Oh, that's a nice image...to Oblivion with just the Nords. Scars _are_ sexy…Mmm…I wonder if the troll had any…_

"What in Kynerath's name are you thinking about?" The priestess' s embarrassed exclamation snapped my attention back to the present. I blinked at her, taking in the scowl and rose-dusted cheeks, and wondered idly what exactly my face looked like.

"Sex." I answered bluntly, propping my chin in my cupped hands and settling my elbows on my knees. "And scars."

Danica's blush deepened, making her dark eyes pop against her pale skin. I arched a curious eyebrow at her, a smirk creeping up my lips.

_Maybe she's a maiden yet. Not unusual for a priest, necessarily, but still…that could be fixed…_

"By the Nine…" She muttered, standing from her seat with a glare as she recovered herself. "If you're well enough to be thinking of such things so blatantly, then you ought to be well enough to tend to your duties as Thane and free up a sick bed for the soldiers that need them. Your things are in the cupboard there. Feel free to take them and go." My brow shot back down in a grumpy scowl.

_Scratch that. She's another damned prudish, "honor-bound good-doer" type._

Danica walked away in a swish of heavy fabric, and I glared right after her. There was no way in Nirn or Oblivion that I was going to go play Thane of Whiterun. Moreover, I was still tired and despite my earlier comfort, my arm was beginning to ache. Such was the nature of scars, new and old. I would have to become accustomed to it, as I did all my pains.

"Oh, no. I'll stay right here. I'll wrap bandages or clean the shrine if it suits your fancy, but I'm not leaving just yet." I growled out, loud enough that the priestess would hear me. She shot me a look as I slowly stood and began to dress painstakingly, but waved a dismissive hand in the end.

"Very well. It matters to me little what you do, as long as you respect Kynareth's temple and leave me to do my work in peace."

"I shan't interrupt your healing." I muttered, belting on my daggers and walking around the bed. I came to a stop next to one of the flowerbeds, brushing my fingers over the delicate, stiff petals of a lavender spring.

_Though I may send a few more wounded your way yet._

The thought made me smile…and then frown. I closed my eyes briefly to dislodge the phantom image behind my lids, as if doing so could banish the beautiful face creased with a naughty scowl, a reprimanding turn to slim lips and a sternly loving twinkle in a warm carmine gaze.

"_You know I'll never ask you to change, my Raven…but at least consider attempting to not send anyone else my way, wretch or otherwise. The world shouldn't have a need for healers…"_

I coughed hoarsely around the tightening in my throat and shook my head hard until my neck burned and the world swam. The scent of lavender completely enveloped me as I stumbled and caught myself on the edge of the flower bed, thrusting my face amid the stiff, grassy stalks. Somehow, the smell seemed to grow stronger.

"Are you well? You look like you're about to vomit sick." Danica's sharp, concerned tongue sliced through the floral haze. I straightened up shakily to find her standing there, half reaching for me.

"It is no bodily illness." I whispered wearily, and somehow, she seemed to hear me. I saw her brow crease in a sort of sad sympathy as I hauled myself upright.

"Grief is the most virulent disease I have ever encountered in all my years as a healer. It eats up the body and soul."

"It has no cure." I breathed by way of agreement.

"Why do you grieve, Sereosa?" She asked softly. Shaking, I squeezed my eyes shut one more time before opening them and stepping past the priestess, dismissing her question.

"If you have any thread spun, I will weave bandages." I offered in a fragile monotone. Her robes rustled as she turned to me.

"You know how to weave a proper wrap?" She questioned skeptically, and I was relieved she allowed the new topic.

"Yes." I answered, wrapping my less-achy right arm around me. "I spent many a year as a helping hand around the temples in Morrowind."

"I would never have imagined." The priestess's eyebrows shot halfway up to her hairline, but I couldn't summon up a thin smile for the ridiculousness of the image.

"No. You wouldn't." I murmured.

_Because I never did it for me. I did it for her._

Danica stared at me for the space of a solemn moment, eyes squinting as if to see my countenance through some shadow. Seemingly finding something in that perceived obscurity that decided her, she set her lips and spun around, moving toward her little living quarters.

"Wait there a moment." She called over her shoulder to me, and then disappeared behind her doorframe. Sighing, I swiveled my gaze around the room until it landed on the silvery, lavender-wreathed shrine. Approaching, I squatted down before the altar, tasting the lavender and the candle wax on my tongue as I breathed.

Reaching out my fingers, I brushed them over the few folded notes left there, dangled them near the offerings of food, and drew them through the tiny, bright flames wavering in waxy wicks; and then, carefully, I pressed the pads to the cool metal of the shrine. A calming sensation seemed to spread up from my fingertips, soothing away tension and quietly dulling the stabbing edge of heartache, a balm of the soul.

Biting my lip, I hesitated for a second, and then I bowed my head and prayed.

"Goddess of Wind and Sky," I breathed, so quietly that the words were not fully formed; though they would be heard still. Heeded, it was unlikely, but heard, for certain. "I know you not; but I would beg of you. Oh Kynareth, I beseech you: grant me the freedom that you embody. As the air is sovereign and capricious, with no masters but its own, so may I be. Burden me not with the responsibilities and destinies these people would give me; burden me not so when I am already crippled with the weight of loss. Lady Kynareth, I will have no part in it. I will be free. What I pray is that I go unhindered...rather than fighting each single step."

I crouched there a moment more, the familiar phrase I would close such a plea with fiery in my mind, but so terrible that my lips trembled and my mouth dried. Still, I forced out the words; though no one was left to echo me any longer.

_Never again…_

"And bless the Fire of our Hearts." The tremulous whisper seemed hollow and empty to my ears, no longer holding meaning. Like a bird with a ripped wing, left cruelly with only one; and thus rendered unable to fly and devoured by earthbound hunters.

My eyes burned, and I snatched my hand away from the altar to rub them. Soft footsteps came close as Danica returned just then, and I stood quickly. The look she gave me suggested any excuses for puffy eyes I could make would be disregarded completely. Instead, I leapt for a distraction.

"That's the thread?" I asked thickly, gesturing to the fluff-filled basket in her arms. I coughed once to clear my throat, wary of that inquisitive, pitying gaze common to healers that this woman too possessed.

"Yes." She replied simply, scooping up a handful of the thin, whitish ropes. I took the strands from her, marveling at their plush softness as the coils dragged, tangled among their greater body in the basket.

"What are these made of? They feel nothing like the silk, wool, or linen I know."

"It's spun Tundra Cotton, the same as nearly every garment, wrap, blanket, or rug in Skyrim."

"You would have to have your own bloody brand of cotton in this blasted place…" I grumbled, dropping the threads back into their bundle, and then continued. "So, where would you have me?"

"Come." Danica beckoned, and headed for the Temple's heavy doors.

Stepping outside was in many ways a slap in the face…albeit an awakening one. The lucid, pale brightness of perpetually winter-white sunshine was blinding compared to the candlelit dimness of the Temple.

I screwed my eyes shut against the glare even as I felt the simultaneous, contradictory urge for them to fly wide in response to the cold. The air, really, was what packed most of the "smack", chill and stinging my skin, and making my eyes water; but, it was also wonderfully refreshing, this crisp, clean breath filling my lungs after so long inhaling the lavender and incense.

My shoulders relaxed once more as I sucked in the cool air, breathing deeply several times. I could taste frost and, faintly, earthy flora on my tongue—the flowers around some of the nearby houses, or the pavilion's grasses, perhaps. It certainly wasn't the great tree. A dead husk would have no life scent.

_A mocking parody of my soul..._

_Well now, isn't someone being depressing?_

Opening my eyes, I saw Danica had gone up to the giant tree. I watched as she placed the basket of twine on one of the benches and went closer, placing a hand on the bone-white trunk. Then, she bowed her head, as I had briefly inside, and began speaking in a quiet undertone so that I couldn't quite make out her words. I heard Kynareth's name a few times though, and assumed she was praying.

I left her to it, moving to sit on the bench next to the basket. The bare, shriveled tree limbs knocked together in the breeze, like the rattle of bones tossed into an empty grave. The few people in the pretty space passed about their business, guards coming down from Dragonsreach and townsfolk emerging from their homes, that same vociferous, zealous Priest of Talos extolling his god to the lot of them.

No one stopped to stand at the tree like Danica did, and no one seemed to tilt their heads its way or hunch their shoulders at the bone-rattling cries of its branches. The great, dead tree was ignored; either because the people didn't care, or because they had recognized its passing and did not want to see its remains.

"_Burn the body, burn the bones, then spread the ashes to and fro; so no one sees the Spirit's ghost…"_

It was such a grim old children's rhyme.

Another wave of melancholy rushed up in me, and I sighed, realizing I probably wasn't going to get out of my dark mood this day. The Temple and its healer and this tree had already stirred the murky lakes in my mind to restlessness, like a pebble tossed into a pond. All there was to do was endure it until the waters stilled again.

I hadn't noticed Danica had finished praying until her orange robes moved back into my field of vision as she walked past. She didn't speak, but rather headed hurriedly back into the Temple. I might have wondered at it, had I not caught the gleam of wetness tracking down her cheek. The tale her tears told was enough.

_You grieve for something as well, Danica Pure-Spring…_

Craning my head back, I looked up at the sky through the bony branches, squinting past the mottled shadows they cast as they shifted. My gaze drifted back to the trunk of the tree, cracked and charred, and I felt an oddly comforting swell of kinship. Not for the priestess…but for the tree: the tree that once, must have been so lovely, now withered and dead; and yet still standing.

"We are alike, you and I." I murmured to it quietly; and though it certainly seemed utterly foolish to be speaking to a tree, I felt none of the resentment or ridiculousness. In fact, I felt almost reassured as the warped wood gave another little groan in the breeze, as if agreeing with me.

Sighing slightly, I shook my head and reached for the basket of cotton, pulling it closer. I pawed through the plush, tangled mass until I found the end of a strand, and then groped at the bottom of the basket for the small, square wooden weaving frame. The tiny hooks had tangled slightly in the thread but it only took a moment to dislodge them. Threading the frame, I set to work.

This crafting was something I had always enjoyed when I went to temple. The motions were simple once you got the pattern, but still complex enough that the task required a decent amount of attention. Generally, I could keep both my twitchy fingers and my impatient mind tame like this.

Although the weaving was distracting, however, I still found myself brooding over the events of the previous day. My thoughts skittered and chirped about my head like a pack of damned Cliff Racers. If I closed my eyes, I could see Mirmulnir, bellowing fire and bathed by lightning as he descended from the storm; I could still feel the wraiths of warmth and life that had been his very soul, if the Nords were to be believed; and I could, skeptical or not, irrevocably still hear the Voices echoing in my ears. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the power of a Shout swelling in my chest; I could still feel the thundering in my bones as the Greybeards called; and I could still feel the innate, grounded sense of belonging from my dreams.

"I don't know what's happening to me anymore." I muttered. Then, because I was already talking, and it felt good, I continued. "It seems like I haven't known in years…lifetimes. It makes me wonder if I ever knew." The tree's branches clacked again.

"I came here…I don't even know what I came here for. But it wasn't any of this. Not a war and politics or a title and a damned Housecarl; and certainly not any thrice-damned, ages-dead dragons! And yet here I am, being called a Thane and hailed as some mythical Dragonborn. It's Shadows-damned madness!" I spat, my fingers clenching into fists around the yarn in my grasp.

_Madness. Utter madness._

"And they all want something from me. How dare they want something from me? Half the people I've met have looked down on me, and they expect me to bow and scrape? Go meekly to the bloody chopping block, Sereosa. Join the army, Sereosa. Fight a war for people who hate you, Sereosa. Deliver a letter, send word to the Jarl, fetch a tablet from a crypt full of fucking draugr! Now, go fight a blasted dragon for us. Be the Dragonborn, be our Thane, and go climb the seven thousand bloody steps to talk with the Greybeards!" I was raving, but I cared little, and continued in a flurry of bitter anger.

"This and that, this and that! I'd much rather feed them all their entrails than help them with running errands, and yet here I am! Here I am, talking to a tree, after I stabbed myself in the leg, because this place and these people and the voices of dragons in my head are all driving me closer to actual insanity than I'd already been!"

I sucked in a gulp of air, chest heaving. My shoulders slumped, and my head thumped back against the back of the bench while my hands went limp in my lap. I stared up into the trembling dead tree, watching how its skeletal limbs seemed almost to curve inward, as if sheltering me in what feeble way it could. Reaching back, I ran weak fingers lightly over its smooth, bleached bark.

"I don't know what to do. Going off on a merry ride of drunken hedonism seems too easy, and too vulnerable. It's as if all this madness has disarmed me anew…"

_Perhaps, then, the need is for a weapon in your hands…Perhaps it is power…_

"Power…" I whispered, pressing my palm to the tree trunk. The word was a familiar one to me. "It's power that I'm lacking…A whole new breed of enemy confronts me now, and I must have the strength to respond to it…" The revelation seemed so simple. How had I not seen it before? If I was to fight free of this land, I needed the proper tools.

It had started with the dragons, with a great black monstrosity with eyes like searing coals and a roar that shook the world. It was inevitable that it could only end with the them, where it began. The dragons possessed an incredible ability; and supposedly, so did I.

"If you are to move mountains…" I breathed the old adage, sitting up. "You must posses only the unshakable will to do so."

_I will do more than move mountains. I will shake this land to its core. I will be free. I will go on surviving._

There was a gust of wind, and the tree gave a great, heaving shudder, the whole thing moaning its defiant character, as if sensing my resolve and crowing its own vow in a show of comradeship. For the first time this day, I smiled fiercely, a wild excitement awakening my subdued spirit from where it had lain weak and cowardly.

"I go to claim the power of the Thu'um." I told my withered oaken accomplice. The wind roared again before dying down, and I wondered, idly, if perhaps Kynareth had deigned a reply after all.

With a smirk, I got up, made myself comfortable among the thick roots of the tree along with my basket, and went back to weaving.

* * *

><p>It was several hours later when Danica emerged from the Temple once again. The sun burned low in the sky, bobbing on the edge of the western horizon. It had sunk down below Whiterun's walls long before, but its fingers still stretched over the world, spears of light and pale warmth. I watched its descent as I weaved and marveled at the many shades of blue, pink and red the skies here, in these clear mountain plains, could be.<p>

The priestess's eyes, I decided, were the paler, lucid blue of the sky six hours past noon. It was possibly my favorite shade yet, not too bright but not muddled with sunset colors; but I would have to compare it to the shades I hadn't yet studied, those of the morning hours, and stormy days, and summers, and more.

_I could spend years here cataloging the colors of the sky and still find myself unfinished. How different from the unceasing ash and lurid oranges and smoky blacks back in Morrowind..._

"You finished all that?" Danica's surprised tone brought me back from my idle musings.

"Yes." I replied, looking up at her. Her face was tired and drawn, and her arms trembled slightly with exhaustion; but her eyes were clear, and she smiled. I almost mentioned the blueness of her eyes. Almost.

"Well, consider me impressed." She said, gaze taking in the basket at my side, its contents much compacted into thick, neat wraps. She also took in my position, and quirked an eyebrow. "And you've made yourself quite comfortable, I see."

I grinned up at her from my place sprawled among the tree's roots, where I had been sitting for most of the day. I glanced fondly up at the dead sentinel.

"It's a good tree." I told her, resting my head against its smooth trunk. "A good listener, too. Although, I'm unsure if that's because it's a blasted tree, or if it's because it's dead. Either way, I like it."

"That is the Gildergreen. Not a simple _it._" The priestess asserted huffily, brow and nose scrunching briefly, before drooping in an expression of regretful sadness. "It's a shame, isn't it…?" Her tone indicated _shame _was meant more as_ tragedy._"The Gildergreen used to be so beautiful…and now it's an eyesore…"

"What happened to it?" I asked, curiously. It was burnt, for certain, but by what exactly I didn't know.

"It was struck by lightning." She answered, sighing. "And now, it's like this. More of a problem for the pilgrims than me, really, but…well, they stopped coming after that."

"Pilgrims?" I blinked, surprised. So it wasn't just my imagination—take that, you Shadows-damned insecurities—after all. The tree really was special in some way.

"Aye, pilgrims. You see, to the east of here is a hidden grove where the Eldergleam resides—the oldest living thing in Skyrim, and possibly all of Tamriel. Our tree here was grown from a cutting of the Eldergleam, in the earliest days of Whiterun. You can still feel the glory of the mother tree through it. Kynareth's glory. The pilgrims, they used to come from all over to listen to Kynareth's voice through its branches."

_Well, I'll be damned. One of the Aedric bitches actually responds when she's called upon. It's too bad she can't be bothered to save her own conduit…No, it's just left to rotting instead._

_The tree still stands, despite being struck by skyfire. Perhaps it is not wholly lost…?_

It was a vain, foolhardy hope; but still…

"Is there nothing to be done? No way to…heal it? Healing flesh is no more complicated, surely, and you do it as normalcy." I sounded terribly silly, like an ignorant child; but in the short span of hours, the tree had become a comrade, and it was no shame to ask after it. Danica looked up at the Gildergreen's reaching branches pensively.

"I've thought about it." She confessed softly. "Trees like this…they never really die. They only slumber…"

The statement was packed so full of desperate ignorance and hopeful naivety that my more cynical side practically howled to tear into it; but the empty, aching spot where the side of me that had been tempered into patience and faith had been before it was torn out still throbbed quietly. A tiny, phantom echo, small but potent enough to hold that cruel skepticism back with the weight of shame and grief.

"Why don't you tell me your theory, then?" I prompted instead, my tone calmly coaxing. Danica's dim face brightened first with shock, and then with barely checked enthusiasm. She knelt next to me, seemingly too eager to wait for me to stand.

"I think if we had some of the sap of the parent tree, we could wake up its child." She blurted, in such a way that indicated she'd been thinking this over for quite some time. "But even if you could get to the Eldergleam, you couldn't tap it. Not with any normal metal—no, the Eldergleam is older than metal, form a time before men or elves. We'd have to use the old magick."

_Old magick? As if there's any other kind…_

"And what, exactly, did you have in mind, Priestess?" I quirked a quizzical brow, feeling Skepticism's tiny, gnawing teeth chomping on the edges of my patience. I beat it back and favored Curiosity instead.

_Stop personifying your emotions and listen, damn it!_

"I've heard about a weapon. A blade made by the Hagravens for sacrificing spriggans. It's called Nettlebane."

"You've done more than simply think about all this, haven't you?" I frowned at her, eyes narrowing. "You've planned it all out; and yet our tree here remains a burnt shell. Why?" Danica looked away, shoulders slumping. She wouldn't lift them to meet my eyes as she replied quietly.

"The hags…they terrify me. I would have gone after it myself if it weren't for them…" She admitted. My frown deepened.

"Just what are these Hagravens? A cult of some sort, or a witch coven?"

"Worse. They're these horrible monsters, a mix of crone and bird. Few creatures match their depravity and repulsiveness; and what they can't win through guile, they will take with savagery."

It was a disturbing image.

"They sound like Dreughs…" I muttered, grimacing and repressing a shiver. The half-human, half-octopus sea creatures had always disturbed me; not enough to keep me from the ocean, but still a great deal.

"Would you," The priestess began, pulling me from my waterlogged reverie. She lifted her head and stared at me determinedly. "Would you get Nettlebane for me? The Hagravens who have it live in Orphan Rock, one of their nests. Sereosa, would you?"

The question hardly contained the uncertainty of such a request; rather, her words belied the willful confidence of a plan decided. It grated at me, one voice in my head yelling that I was being tied down again, trapped further with someone else's petty needs; while another whispered insistently that though it seemed as such, this was not so. Oddly enough, her assumption, her surety, of my participation was not in conflict—that much had somehow already been decided the moment I sat beside the Gildergreen. What bothered me was actually that very fact: that I had so quickly latched onto something, even if it was only a tree.

There was always a gateway. Something that seemed innocuous that, once cracked open, would soon be flying wide. If I didn't tread carefully, and keep my head above the mire of weakness giving in to such pathetic emotions brought, I would fall through the door and be doomed again.

"I'll look into it, Danica. I promise." I swore to her. I was being truthful. I would examine a course of action for getting this wicked dagger; but I would not necessarily act on in. The risk was great, and whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was unstable right now.

Danica's face broke—like a rock cracking—into that thin smile that appeared to be all the Nords—just rocks—were capable of. Even still, her hope and relief were palpable as she took my hands in hers.

"Your spirit is strong. Kynareth's winds will guide your path." She said sincerely, and just then a gusting breeze swirled around us. Danica laughed brightly. I cringed, away from her and the tree that was singing its goddess's song. Standing quickly to cover the movement, I pulled the priestess up with me smiling, at her and she smiled on back.

"I must first go to see the Greybeards." I told her firmly. On any other occasion, I would never have mentioned my actual destination, for the sake of discretion; however, it was already common knowledge that the 'Dragonborn' had been summoned. And moreover, I needed directions. "Can you tell me how to get to High Hrothgar?"

"Aye." Danica answered, releasing her grasp on me and stepping back. She pointed one slender finger southeastward, toward the behemoth of a mountain that looked indomitable even at a distance. "That is the Throat of the World. On the eastern side of the mountain, there is a milling town at its base, called Ivarstead. Most pilgrims climbing the Seven Thousand Steps go there. If you follow the road south, past Riverwood and Helgen, and then turn east, you can reach it. And…Orphan Rock is along the way…"

"The Greybeards first, Danica." I repeated. "Then we shall see about Orphan Rock, provided I make it back down the mountain. Or up it, for that matter."

"You will make it." The priestess held out her hands, as if in blessing. "The Divines strengthen you. There is nothing you cannot accomplish with their touch upon you."

As she finished speaking, her hands lit up with the beautiful, singing light of Restoration magick. The sparkling, golden ribbons floated close and swathed me in a tiny, gentle vortex of warmth. The aches in my arm, legs, and back receded; the stress-induced throb in my head and the tightness in my neck vanished; and when I breathed, deeply, it felt much easier.

I blinked back the tears in my eyes. It was cruel, that something that felt so wonderful and made the body light should now be shadowed by the soul's anguish.

_It looks like I'm going to have to try harder to be appreciative, doesn't it, my dear…?_

I banished the thought and its accompanying emotions as soon as they came, and instead focused on Danica. Shakily, I nodded to her.

"Thank you." I murmured, taking another bracing breath. Gathering myself, I made a shooing motion. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you've got another soldier in a little earlier. Off to the Temple with you, and I will go prepare for my journey."

"Aye, I do have a patient to tend. Farewell, Sereosa. Kynareth bless you."

"And you, Danica." With that, she took a last look up at the Gildergreen, took the basket of bandages under her arm, and then made for her Temple. I paused there a moment, closing my eyes.

_Keep your goals in mind. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn of the Thu'um from the Greybeards. Get a glass of wine. And then…well, just get that far. Then we'll see…_

Resolved, I turned my back on the dead tree with which I shared kinship, and set my feet towards the Bannered Mare. Though I liked Whiterun itself, the people had me even antsier to be gone than the village folk of Riverwood had.

In Riverwood I had enemies, true; but enemies could be opposed, could be killed. In Whiterun, there were people that expected things of me. Honorable, responsible things that would most certainly not include anything to my liking. These were actually more dangerous, in that I could not battle them so openly or easily.

_Expectations are considerably harder to kill than people, no matter how little or much is expected. Better to be putting a knife in someone's gullet. So much simpler._

My hand slipped to my waist, where I clutched at my blood-crusted dagger reassuringly. It was a good weapon. Effective, decisive, simple.

_Yes…so much simpler._

* * *

><p>The day had made its shadowy morph into deep night by the time I made it to the Whiterun Stables. After inquiring after Chestnut in the Mare, Hulda had informed me she'd sent Saadia to take the horse back to the stables. I'd thanked her for her assistance and service the previous night—day, morning, whatever it had been when I'd gotten drunk as a bumbling Kagoutis—had a good meal, got my things, and then got out of there.<p>

I watched as the moronic stableboy doused a lantern and slipped tiredly into the stable house, plunging the little stalls into darkness. Moving quietly, I padded over and called out softly.

"Chestnut!" I hissed, hoping the mare would respond. I wasn't going to be able to tell her from the other steeds in the dark, and I really rather liked the stout brown girl. "Chestnut!"

Mercifully, I received a little whinny in reply, and the thump of a hoof to guide me. I grinned. My horse was now officially more intelligent than most Nords. Heading in the direction of the sound, I found the dark, hulking shape of my mare, her big brown eyes glassy behind her thick lashes. She whickered, bending her thick neck and bumping her muzzle against my breast, her long, firm snout pressing into my face. I chuckled, reaching up to pat her affectionately.

"There's a good little lady." I murmured, though she was by no means little.

Taking her saddle from where it rested over the edge of her stall, I fit it on her back and tied the straps. Next, I took her saddlebags from their places hanging on the wall and tied them to the saddle. Lastly, I gently got her bridle and reins in place, and then deposited my pack and potions within the bags.

Finally ready, I swung up onto her back, scratched sweetly under her jaw, and then clucked the mare into motion. With a heavy snort, she set off, her thudding walk filling the night with cloven drumbeats as she meandered along. It sounded eerily like the drums of a dirge, played at the burning or burial of every Dunmer body.

_A death song, hmm? And for whom now does it play…?_

I didn't think about the answer. I just spurred Chesnut into a canter, following the White River towards Riverwood. If the Shadows would grant me a bit of luck, I would make it through the damned hamlet without having to stop. If not…well then, I would have a little entertainment this night.

_"Yah!"_ I cried with a vicious smile, urging my mare to a gallop, and she took off, carrying me fast into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Questions:  
><strong>**  
>1) Would you be interested in a LiveJournal blog where I discuss each chapter (things like character motivations, events, etc.)?<strong>

**2) Would you be interested in a prequel to _Where Wine Flows Like Water_, detailing Ser's childhood and life before the start of the story?**

**3) Would you be interested in an Oblivion fic?**

And I had one more but I'm drawing a complete blank and have been for the last week. -_- Soooo if you could just please answer these. They're literally phrased for 'yes' or 'no'. It legit takes less than a minute. PLEASE. Thank you :D

**Translations**:

_Fal krein_ – the sun (formal)

_Viingge_ – wings

_Faad_ – warmth

_Viintaas_ – shining

_Shul_ – sun

_Ven_ - wind

_Lok_ – sky

_Laas_ – life

_Niri_ – my hunt (prey)

_Sos_ – blood

_Slen_ – flesh

_Krongrah_ – victory

_Krii_ - kill

_Dovahsos_ – Dragon blood


	10. A Song By The River

**A/N: **Hey again all! First chapter of the new year :D ANNNND **WE'RE DOUBLE DIGITS PEOPLE. **I feel accomplished. It's like turning 10 all over again.

Love and many thanks to **TwistedSystem**_**, White Wolf Writers,**_and **_codysmit_**for your reviews! They mean a lot guys, and the commentary maes me laugh. On a side note, I'm still looking for opinions on those questions I asked last time. Any interest in the mentioned fics?

Thanks to my lovely beta **_eyeofthedivine_ **for all her hard work. Love you!

* * *

><p>It really shouldn't have surprised me that I would run into trouble on the way to Riverwood; and it really shouldn't have surprised me that I would once<em> again<em> be stuck a night in the Shadows _damned_ backwater cesspool of a hamlet. It shouldn't have surprised me that I was going to be flung among those people and their idiocy another time. It _really _shouldn't have surprised me.

But the wolves had indeed surprised me; or more specifically, Chestnut.

"Ancestor's Blood and Fury's Fire…" I hissed, not nearlyfor the last time. It was a testament to my frustration and exhaustion that the full and proper oath was even being spewed from my lips. Usually I preferred my favorite, abbreviated form.

Grunting, I pushed against my mare's flank again, sweat dripping into my eyes as my heels dug into the dirt of the road. She wobbled, letting out a pained neigh, and hobbled forward another three steps. I shoved, providing the support for her, instead of the injured leg that was pulled up and tucked against her; and she took another couple of steps.

So had been our rhythm for the past hour. An hour of slow, painful tottering along after a little pack of wolves had come rushing at us from the surrounding wilds. They had been easy—_extremely _easy—to kill once I had actually been able to get down off my frantic horse. Once I was free of the saddle, Chestnut had flown into a flurry of striking hoofs and screaming whinnies. Meanwhile, I had happily slashed the beasts' flanks and backs and snapping jaws to pieces.

Evidently, it hadn't been enough, because one of the mongrels had gotten its teeth around my mare's front left leg. The damage wasn't fatal, and it didn't _look _too deep—as if I knew how to judge an animal's wounds when I had enough trouble with my own. It was definitely bad enough though that sweet Chestnut wasn't bearing weight on it.

Hence, the current predicament.

"Gods be _damned_, why is this happening to me?" I gasped to no one in particular, but amended my statement when a moony, hurt-filled brown eye rolled down to look at me. "Why is this happening to _us?_"

_Never mind the Nords. My horse is most definitely more intelligent than most people I've ever met in general._

"And heavier too…" I muttered, and then yelped as I was nearly thrown over when Chestnut bumped into me. Rather purposefully. I glared up at her. "_What? _Don't give me that sass. You know it's true. You're bred to be stockier, stronger. It's why you're so adept at maneuvering in this awful terrain."

That seemed to placate her, because she leaned more on her good side and took five whole steps on the next round. I was grateful for both.

"Alright, alright. That's it. We're taking a break." I panted at her, patting her with the hand that was stretched way up and over her shoulder. The other was pressed low against her flank for additional support. Chestnut snorted, and then we were clambering slowly and unsteadily off the road and onto a nice, soft stretch of lush grass and damp earth near the riverbank.

It was an awkward, difficult affair, getting Chestnut settled. Normally the mare would have stood to rest, or perhaps knelt; but now she was forced to roll onto her flank. It was a vulnerable position for a horse, not often used for long. Chestnut whickered anxiously as she lay among the springy bushes, and I situated myself so that I protected her exposed belly, murmuring shushing noises and petting her flank. Her heavy head thudded against the ground as she tossed it, and I winced, stretching out to wrap my arms around her neck. It seemed silly that an embrace would comfort a horse, but after a few moments she seemed to calm.

"There you go girl. It's okay." I whispered against her warm, muscled neck. Her shaggy mane tickled my cheek as I relaxed against her, my own body quietly moaning its aches and exhaustion.

_And the night had started out with so much promise too…Well, mostly. _

Earlier, I'd been determined, almost optimistic about the prospect of both gaining power and finally having a solid goal, a step towards…something. Now however, I was sore, angry, distressed, and exhausted.

"I'm tired, Chestnut." I said to her aloud, feeling oddly at ease in admitting as much to the mare here, on the side of the road, in the starlit dark of night. "I'm just so very tired…and lost." I wheezed a little, dry laugh, my head lolling to the side so that I could look up at the sky.

The stars burned, droplets of flame in a sea so blue and deeply dark with night that only those otherworldly fires could live in it. They and the moons alone seared mercilessly enough to survive in that infinite blackness.

"It seems like I've been lost forever. I can't even remember what home and happiness felt like. A veil obscures the memories, and every time I try to look through it, it only hurts more."

I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the rise and fall beneath my cheek as Chestnut breathed, listening to the torpid rush of the nearby river, pressing my hips into the cool earth below me just to feel it better. Then, I opened them again, and exhaled in a quiet sigh.

"But I'm not stopping. It's not enough. It's never enough. I'm going to keep going until this accursed body gives out on me. I'm going to survive. I won't let that bitch have her satisfaction. I'll show her she failed…" And then my tone darkened, becoming resigned. "Even if living seems infinitely more painful…"

My lips contorted into a moody scowl, but it didn't stay long. Chestnut soon had her say, twisting her muzzle around far enough to blow hot, pungent, spittle-soaked air into my face with that floppy wet sound horses make when they huff. I cringed back in disgust, wiping my eyes on the supple sleeve of my leathers.

"_Ach! _Damnation, Chestnut, what was that for?" I demanded in a whiny snarl, still rubbing my arm vigorously over my wetted features. My mare just looked at me out of one eye, as if to say, _'You know exactly what.'_

I growled and slouched back against her flank, making sure to position my face—and any other parts of my head—firmly out of her reach. I felt a tingle across my back as her sides trembled, almost as if the horse was _laughing_.I scowled again and hunched my shoulders. Either my horse was laughing at me, or I was crazy enough to _think_ my horse would laugh at me. I didn't much like either option.

"Oh, be quiet." I muttered, though whether I was talking to Chestnut or myself at this point was debatable. "Get some rest. We'll have to push on to Riverwood soon."

And there, I would, in all likelihood, have to say goodbye to my mare. Looking at the map Hulda had conveniently marked for me, it was obviously going to be a real blasted pain walking all the way from Riverwood to Ivarstead; but I couldn't push the poor girl on. I had no knowledge of healing magick, and though I'd doused the wound with one of my precious healing potions earlier, it hadn't had quite the expected effect. Likely, this was because the dosage was off, or the ingredients less potent. With no healers in Riverwood, I was just going to have to turn her over to Gerdur and hope the woman knew how to tend a horse like she did her family's bull.

I had hopes that I would be able to come back from this meeting with the Greybeards and reclaim Chestnut; but it was a small chance at best. There was so much that could go badly: the bite could be infected and cause disease; the potion I'd put on the wound could have some adverse effect on the horse's system and sicken her; she could be left without proper care, and either starve or dehydrate; she could be let stray and be beset by more wild animals; she might even be killed out of spite by human hands, if Sven or Faendal, or maybe even Delphine for that matter, learned about her.

This was another obstacle itself: Delphine. Watchful, baleful, broom-wielding innkeeper by day; and suspicious, dragon-investigating, hooded mercenary by night. I didn't know what to think of her, or what to expect from her. She was a dangerous unknown, one that was far too involved in the dragon business for my liking. I would have to be cautious. She couldn't know that I'd recognized her earlier.

_And she can't know about any of this Dragonborn madness, or that I killed Mirmulnir…meaning she can't know that bitch-born bastard of a Jarl made me a Thane. _

_Let's make this easy. Just make sure she doesn't know a damn thing._

…_As if that's going to be "easy". Well, at worst, a knife between the ribs solves any situation._

I had to try; or I'd drive myself crazy otherwise.

And then there was Sven. It had been fun torturing him, but I'd let the game run its course. He was now a loose end that needed to be destroyed, lest it wind its way around my throat in a noose. I would kill him in his home before I left Riverwood tonight. Then, I could be rid of one more nagging afterthought and hopefully increase my mare's chances of survival.

For any of this to occur, however, we had to actually _reach _Riverwood—damn the place—before the Lord of Madness came knocking. I

"Alright. New plan." I informed my equestrian accomplice, looking up into her big brown eye. "Get to Riverwood. Get you into Gerdur's care. Kill the bard. And then on to Ivarstead and a _bottle_ of wine, blast the cup."It sounded like a good plan. A very good plan. Which probably meant that it was complete and utter rubbish. My lips pressed together in thought as I frowned slightly.

_Can I make it to Ivarstead tonight? Helgen is only a little over an hour or so away from Riverwood. Factoring in cautious nighttime travel, it would take perhaps two hours... _

After that though, I didn't know. Danica had told me Ivarstead was past Helgen, at the eastern base of the Throat of the World. It was also considered to be in the Rift, which my map indicated was a whole separate Hold from Whiterun's. Did I really want to attempt navigating a mountainous road in the dark for Ancestors knew how many miles?

I scowled, frown deepening, and rubbed my temples.

The alternative wasn't any better though. Staying the rest of the night in Riverwood was simply a bad idea. If I hung around and the guards found another corpse, it would be so blatantly obvious who the culprit was that even those helmeted morons would realize and arrest me.

On the other hand, I had no idea where I'd find another place to stay, especially once I reached Helgen. Sleeping under the stars was always a possibility; but also always a risk in the wilderness. An increased one, what with the freezing temperatures of Skyrim. Until I picked up on some proper techniques for surviving the cold, staying out in the open was a negative. A camp would do, but the probability that I'd just stumble upon another camp of bandits ready to be killed, with a fire and bed waiting was about as small as the average Nord's brain.

In other words, _infinitesimal_.

That didn't leave many options. All of which, frankly, were varying levels of awful. Picking the lesser of the evils would have to do. Which..._probably_ meant bunkering down in the ruins of a razed hamlet and hoping no bandits, looters, or rabid rodents came along.

"Dammit all." I groused, flinging up my hands. Chestnut stared at me a moment, then huffed, her chest shuddering, and laid back down. I made a face at her, settling back against her once more.I didn't have a particularly solid plan, but I hadn't for a long time now anyways. Whatever happened, I was getting Chestnut to relative safety, and making my way to High Hrothgar.

"About another ten minutes." I told my sweet mare. "Then, we push on." The night itself wasn't anything to worry about; but staying too long in one spot would be an invitation to predators with Chestnut's wounded leg...

_Trying desperately to quiet my gasping breaths as I stumbled down the darkened beaches, dragging his weight with me. Collapsing as my legs gave out once we reached the shore. Pressing my blood-slicked palms to the sopping wound in his side, wishing I knew how to stop the blood. Hearing the chattering hisses of Cliff Racers_ _as they glided closer on death-whisper wings, scenting the fresh blood on the ashy sands. Seeing swarms and swarms of beady black eyes glinting viciously, coming closer…_

A shiver ran up my spine, and I cringed into Chestnut's side, away from the memory. It was definitely best to be out of the wilds, and not caught as wounded prey…

"Just another few minutes…" I muttered softly, drawing my dagger out of its sheath with a quiet rasp. I held it across my knees and consciously took even, slow breaths, letting my eyes scan the nightscape around me. Waiting, I allowed the anxious respite, listening to the sound of my mare's labored breathing all the while.

"_Remember, my girl: the night, the dark, it's nothing to fear. It is not your friend nor enemy. It's just an entity like any other. It just needs watching."_

With my favorite lesson firmly in mind, I did just as I was taught. I just kept watching.

* * *

><p>It was with the supreme stretches of my patience that I resisted stabbing a dagger into the eye-slits of the guards' helmets as my mare and I staggered into Riverwood. The way their ironclad heads followed us, I was more than positive they were staring. At me and Chestnut. <em>Blatantly<em>.I ground my teeth and focused on getting past the Sleeping Giant and up to Gerdur's. Luckily for the lives of the townsfolk, no one else seemed to be about to gawk; though light and laughter did spill out from the inn's crannies.

The Trader's was dark, as were most of the homes, but for a lantern in the smith's window, and the dim, ember glow of his forge nearby. Gerdur's house, however, was bright, the door outlined in thin, golden beams, as if beckoning company.

Moving Chestnut carefully into the fenced yard, I gingerly stepped away from her, leaving her to balance in a wobbly standing position. Considering she was a massive mountain mare, and doing said performance on three legs alone, I thought she looked quite graceful. I gave her a light pat before approaching the house.

Reaching out a hand to knock—I'd lost my key at some point between fighting a blasted dragon, talking to a tree, and dragging a horse upriver—I rapped my knuckles firmly on the door. My curled fingers had barely left the wood when it was wrenched back in a blinding spill of firelight. I blinked and squinted at the figure in the doorway as my vision blurred and soon adjusted.

I watched blearily as Gerdur's face, bright with a barely-tempered, eager hopefulness, flickered, dimmed, and then darkened. The cycle of enthusiasm, realization, disappointment, and resumed composure all in the span of a handful of seconds was rather novel.

"It's you..." She murmured ruefully, half to herself, her shoulders hunching. Then she was drawing herself up, and forcing a patient smile into the world.

"Welcome, my friend."

"Expecting someone else, Gerdur?" I queried. She looked at me a long moment and then sighed heavily.

"Aye. Ralof." She answered glumly. " He ran off two nights ago without a word. Just as this violent storm let up, too. I thought..."

_You thought he might come back. He might not be leaving you behind. He might be safe and sound, right here. He might..._

_She might…_

"He's gone, Gerdur. You know that. He was ready to go running back to Ulfric at the first chance he got." I snapped, old anger and pain lacing my tone.

"I know." The she-troll muttered tired but without venom. Resigned to her own fate, as well as her brother's. "I know, but...Ahh no. No. It is what it is." She shook her head. "What can I do for you, my friend?"

It took several long minutes for me to explain my situation, beginning with Chestnut, as a priority. Gerdur's eyebrows climbed high, mouth turning in repressed humor, and I had to pause frequently to reign in my desire to strangle the woman. Nothing about this lunacy was funny in the slightest!

I looked at her smirk again and took another bracing breath.

"...and so that's where I'll need your assistance. I can't take her with me, but she needs looking after." I finished at last, glancing over at the woman. We both knelt on either side of Chestnut—the sweet, smart mare hadn't let the she-troll near her without my presence at her side—and Gerdur had begun cooing over her as soon as she'd seen her. She was rubbing the mare's sides now, continuous, firm strokes that belied her strength of arm as a miller.

"Where is it that you're going that you can't bring the girl? Her leg isn't too bad. It would only take a few weeks at most to heal rightly. Quicker with potions." The Nord woman questioned, her bright blue eyes meeting mine.

I briefly entertained the thought that our eyes were opposites, round and blue versus angled and red; like the ice and fire in our blood, respectively. Complete contradictions of one another, and yet here, cooperating, over a horse.I snorted at the irony.

"I'm going to High Hrothgar." I said quietly, turning my head to look up at black, white-capped behemoth haloed in moonlight that was the Throat of the World. Even at such a distance, it pierced the sky, so tall and massive that it nearly hid Secunda from sight. Gerdur's breath caught in her throat as she inhaled sharply.

"The Greybeards…" She whispered. "They were calling _you._ You're _Dragonborn._"

I scowled. Apparently, _all _Nords shared the same superstitions, and the same blind belief.

"I'm _me. _Nothing more. Certainly nothing your legends claim." I growled out. Chestnut picked up on my agitation and started shuffling, but my hand on her muzzle calmed her.

"You can Shout, can't you? Can't you?" She asserted, her hands stilling on the mare's side. I glared at her, my lip curling into a barely disguised grimace of contempt.

"Yes. I can." The words were halting, grudging. "I've done it only once though. It proves nothing."

"Well, do it again! If you can just Shout naturally, with no training, then legends or no, it means you're Dragonborn." Gerdur argued, the stern, no-nonsense tone reminiscent of dealing with a stubborn husband, child, or merchant; and winning.

"I don't know how." I snarled, fingers curling like talons in my frustration.

"Try." The Nord woman snapped instantly, and I couldn't help but feel a tiny flicker of respect for her fortitude, despite my anger. She had a backbone harder than most of the men I'd met in all my years.

In Morrowind, women and men were equally viperous; but in some countries I'd been to, like Cyrodiil, the ladies varied from placating cows to fawning does. Skyrim, however, bore no such gender discriminations. It was either steel in your blood, or your blood on the steel. It was the sort of absolute attitude Father had possessed and I appreciated it, at least.

_You're in Skyrim now. It's time you adapted. Fire might be in your blood, but you need something stronger. The flames of the Ancestors might not be enough anymore; but those of the dragons may be my aegis._

I clenched my jaw. Try, she said? Just try? Like I had before? It didn't seem like it could be so simple. I'd just…just _absorbed _Mirmulnir's soul the last time. That alone could have caused the power behind the word, not anything I'd Nords, however, claimed that being Dragonborn meant I could Shout naturally. Like it was as natural as breathing. Like flexing a muscle, moving my arm.

Closing my eyes, I sucked in a deep breath. I did what I'd done before. I thought of the word. I thought of _force. _Pushing, moving, throwing. Something primal. Something unstoppable. _Force. _My eyes snapped open and my chest expanded anew.

"_FUS!_" I Shouted, the bluish blast of pure force tearing from my mouth once more. Gerdur was bowled over with a cry, landing flat on her back, and Chestnut startled, although not as terribly as I would have expected.

"Sweet _Talos!_" The she-troll gasped picking herself up as the heavy breathlessness stole again into my lungs. I put a hand to my chest, trying to breathe deeply enough to fill them; but I couldn't quite manage it.

Seconds later, loud, clanging footsteps thudded on the dirt streets as a gold-clad guardsman came running up. His sword was drawn, his shield up, and his wide, muscular shoulders were tense. That ghastly helmet obscured his face.

"What was that?" He demanded, spotting us. I opened my mouth to snap a sharp retort but I was still breathless, and it took only that small lag for Gerdur to pipe up.

"Haven't you ever heard a hurt animal baying before, boy? There are dragons to worry about! Dragons! Why don't you get back to keeping our homes safe, instead of running scared at every noise?" She accosted him, her fist waving with a much _stockier_ form of matronly fury.

It was oddly effective. The guard sheathed his blade and put his hands up in a placating gesture, murmuring an apology and backing away. I was able to keep my jaw from dropping just long enough for him to get around the corner.

"How did yo—" I started to ask, but was cut off.

"Now look what that fool's done! His clamoring went and scared the poor girl." She griped, falling over my mare seemingly in an effort to pet and pat as much of her as possible. I studied Chestnut critically. She seemed bothered yes, but not scared—a _dragon_ hadn't scared her off, after all. Her flustered attitude was more akin to that I'd seen of ladies who had been interrupted when indecent.

_How dare he, that uncouth buffoon, go barging in on the Lady Chestnut while she lay exposed…?_

I choked on a laugh, and Gerdur glared at me.

"Hush, girl, all is well." The she-troll murmured. Then, to my surprise—and slight irritation—she began to sing. Softly, as one would a lullaby, in a low, rich voice, hollow and tumbled like the icy waters of the White River rushing over the rocks.

"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Oppression is now nearly done. We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own. With our blood and our steel, we will take back our home…"

_A song for the Stormcloaks. _

I grimaced as Gerdur sang:

"All hail to Ulfric!  
>You are the High King!<br>In your great honor we drink and we sing.  
>We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives.<br>And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies!  
>But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean,<br>of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams.

All hail to Ulfric!  
>You are the High King!<br>And in your great honor we drink and we sing…"

Her voice faded away, into the quiet of the night. Chestnut snorted, having gone still as she listened. A loud, boisterous laugh sounded faintly from the inn. Gerdur glanced up at me, and I snarled, turning away.

"Don't sing your damned songs around me, woman. I'll have none of that blasted Stormcloak drivel." I snapped.

"I don't understand," She said as I peered at her from the corner of my eye. "My brother said you were joining the cause. Why would you, if you didn't care?"

"I don't care. I don't care one bloody wit." I hissed at her. "I swore to your brother I'd join the Stormcloaks, and I will. But I did so only because of the debt I owed him, and for the sake of spilling Imperial blood. Nothing more. I would have fought for the Empire just as easily, were the situation different. If I didn't hate the Imperials, and owe my life to Ralof, I wouldn't get involved at all."

"How can you not care? Ulfric's cause is blessed!" She snapped right back. I threw up my hands, croaking out a black chuckle.

"How can _I _not care about _Ulfric's_ cause? Use what little brain you have Gerdur, instead of being a blind troll like your brother! Do you think a 'Skyrim for the Nords' includes elves? Do you think the worship of your man-god and the honor of your people matter to _me_? Ha!"

"It's not just about the Nords! It's more than fighting for honor! It's about fighting to be _free. _We fight so that we can do as we please, so that we can live as we want! Not how the Empire want us to! Not how the Thalmor want us to! We fight for our _freedom. _Can't you understand that?" She cried, chest heaving. I snarled at her, ready to yell back…and then stopped as her words sunk into my chest like the blade of a knife.

_Fighting to be free…Struggling exactly as I am now. Just trying to get out from under the demands of others, trying to stop them from repressing you, taking you, piece by piece. Just fighting to be free…_

My shoulders slumped, my face falling from its angry contortion. Chestnut bumped her snout against my side, and one limp hand went out automatically to scratch at her flat brow.

"I _can _understand." I murmured, very quietly. It seemed a whisper after Gerdur's declarations. "I too fight for my freedom; but the Stormcloaks are not part of that. This 'great honor' of being some figure of Nordic legend, it isn't part of that. I do not wish to be tied to this land. I simply want to wander where I may and enjoy what recklessness I can."

"You want to run away? Like a coward?" Gerdur asked with some mixture of disbelief and dislike, her stance stiff. I shifted slightly, squaring my shoulders.

"No." I said flatly, looking back at the woman. Her eyes widened for some reason. "I want to survive. That defiance is all I have left."

"Defiance of what?" She asked. I shook my head slowly.

"Of the Imperials. Of the Stormcloaks. Of old enemies, and new. Of the dragons. Of time, and infection, and pain. Of all that would have me dead. Of the whole damned world. Anything."

_Of her._

"So that's it? You just make everyone and everything an enemy and pick the side that benefits you most?" She seemed appalled; but I cared little.

"Yes. That's exactly it." I replied, raising a hand to forestall her indigence. "Make no mistake, I will keep my word and fight for your brother; but when I feel my due has been paid, I will give no more. I will go as I please."

It was unwise to be so frank with a woman whose aid I required. She needed to be won over, not dissuaded by truths other than her own. Yet I couldn't seem to censor myself.

_Evidently, Tact has as much abandoned you this night as Luck. The bastards probably eloped together. _

"Damn them…" I muttered, mouth twisting.

"What?" Gerdur asked, brow furrowing. I waved her off.

"Nothing. Look, I need to know if you can take care of her." I patted Chestnut. "I'll pay you for her board and feed, and any cost of medicinal necessities. Please."

"Of course I'll take care of her. It's the least I can do. Besides, Frodnar will love having the chance to see a horse as fine as this girl up close."

"You have my thanks." I sighed, relieved. Reaching for my purse, I pulled out a hefty handful of septims, and then another. Counting out a hundred, I pushed them into her hands.

"This is far more than what's neede—" The she-troll started to protest, but I cut her off again.

"It's for her care. Just see that's she's well." I insisted firmly. Gerdur's lips pressed into a stony line, but she nodded, folding the money into the pockets of her apron.

"Well, get along then. I'll treat and wrap that leg tonight, and get her comfortable. If you need to leave anything from those saddlebags here for safekeeping, you can. I'll keep them locked up."

I almost didn't agree. Honestly though, I had far too much to carry, and I probably wouldn't be sticking around long enough for the Trader to open up in the morning. So I nodded and thanked her once more.

Giving Chestnut one last, tight hug around her thick neck, I pressed a kiss to her muzzle and looked into her big brown eyes.

"Get well, my beauty." I told her, ruffling her mane. She huffed in my face, nuzzling my cheek. Sighing, I stood, my cramped legs tingling, and turned away, hobbling toward the inn.

* * *

><p>Contrary to the wolves, it <em>didn't <em>surprise me that Delphine was already back at the Sleeping Giant, dressed normally and sweeping the floors as if she'd never left. She was taking drink orders and nagging at Orgnar and shooting me little barbed looks, all at the same time, just as she had before.

_No shock there._

What _did _surprise me was the quiet. People—less than I'd ever seen of the night crowd in my days here—were talking and laughing, yes, but something was missing.

There was no music.

"Where's Sven?" I demanded of Orgnar, gripping the edge of the bar hard to keep my hands from my daggers. The austere man didn't bother raising an eyebrow or asking after me or anything of the sort. He just reached below the counter and set a bottle of wine in front of me.

"Gone. Left three days ago. Sold all his belongings, bought some armor and a mace from Alvor, burned his lute in the streets, and then took off. Nobody knows what to make of it."

Septims traded places with the wine in seconds. I downed half of it, slamming the bottle back down, and wiped a dribble from my chin. My vision fuzzed, heat flushing through my skull as a blood vessel popped from the stress.

_Gone. Deranged, armed, and gone. Damn him to Oblivion! I'm too late. Blood and fire! Blood and blasted fire!_

"You want a room?" The barkeeper asked blandly. I glared at him through squinted eyes. He shrugged and slid the familiar key across the smooth wood. I snatched it and stormed off. I would pay in the morning.

_The bard is gone. It doesn't matter anymore where I stay._

Slamming the door shut and locking it behind me, I dropped to my knees, checking under the bed. Finding nothing but dust, crumbs, and some slob's old sock, I stood again and unbuckled my blades. Setting my belt across the nightstand, I took off my extremely weighty pack and sat down on the bed, opening it.

_Down to business, then…_

I began pulling things out, separating them into piles, as I liked: weaponry, armor, potions, scrolls, books, potions, food and ingredients—I definitely didn't want to get those two mixed up—then keys, and lastly miscellaneous items that didn't pertain to any of the above specifically in their usefulness.

The weapons and armor were the smallest groups but also the heaviest, which was not unusual. It just meant carrying only the necessities. That being said, of the weapons, I kept my Imperial bow, one hundred and eighteen iron arrows, eighty steel arrows, and my two sharpened steel daggers.

The rest, including various maces, blades, and the damned Jarl's gifted axe, I set aside. Similarly, I kept only my leathers and the light valuables—circlets, rings, necklaces—from the armor, as well as one clean dress.

The other piles, though much larger, were also much lighter. The food pile, I noted with mixed humor and exasperation, was mostly bread crusts and bottles of wine. I took the time to make a meal—after careful examination—of good breads, cheeses, meats and veggies, picking through and discarding anything moldy or off-putting.

When I finished eating, I wrapped up the remaining foodstuffs tightly, paying special attention to the items that would last a long while should I be waylaid in my journey to the mountains. I would eat anything perishable in the next two or three days.

The scrolls, books, and keys categories had only two items to show for each. I eyed the Book of the Dragonborn with malice, put all six baubles neatly into my pack, and then moved on.

The final two groups were always the most trouble. Potions and ingredients. Generally, as was the case now, this was for several reasons. Potions were always difficult to transport and ration, and were prone to hazardous messiness. Ingredients tended to be cluttered, as they were numerous, and of course, there were damn well a lot of different varieties.

My own stock now was a classic case. Between the Mountain Flowers, Lavender, Imp Stools, Butterfly Wings, Garlic, Fly Amanita, Elves Ear, Mora Topinella, Spider Eggs, and many other things, one tended to get lost. One also tended to mix up the effects each had, especially since no one item would only have a single property; and while skilled herbalists and alchemists could keep track easily, others could not. For this reason, many folk I'd known and fought or traded with organized their supplies based on these properties.

I had been taught differently however. Noting, analyzing, and recalling minute details and facts had been so drilled into me it was now as automatic as breathing. In the event that I truly struggled with something, I wrote it down several times until I _did _remember, and then burned the scraps. Written knowledge could be stolen and used by another; but your own mind was a treasure vault not even the most arduous torture could break if fortified it correctly.

_Not to say that that's necessarily simple, but…_

Going about sorting through and cataloging the ingredients took hours. The candle on the bedside table was burning low by the time I finished, having put everything in alphabetical order and wrapped them each on their own in linen to be stowed away.

The last two piles, potions and miscellaneous things, were shoved aside for the morning. My eyes felt heavy as lead, and I wasn't staying up any longer only to make errors in my preparations. That kind of negligence could prove detrimental to my health later on

Checking one last time that the door was locked securely, I stuffed some molten candle wax into the tumbler to deter any lockpicks that may come calling. Then, I pulled off my boots and bracers, and crawled under the sheets. I blew out the candle, pale ribbons of smoke curling like iridescent wraiths as the room was plunged into darkness. In the dimness like that, the ashy scent was comforting.

I lost consciousness before the air had even cleared.

* * *

><p>I jerked awake the next morning to what had to be the most Shadows-damned awful singing I'd ever heard in my life. With my ears practically bleeding, I rolled out of bed, stumbled to my door, fumbled with the lock—a mess of frustration of my own creation—and yanked the door open.<p>

"_Silence that horrible racket!_" I screeched, eyes honing in on the duo standing in front of the bar. It was Delphine and Orgnar. The latter held a fat drum in his arms, and clamped his mouth shut as I spoke. He looked down at Delphine.

"Told you I can't sing." He told her plainly. Delphine's visage darkened.

"And I told you we're going to need music. And you," Her eyes shot to me with all the intensity of thrown spear, as if a single look could skewer. "No one asked for _your _input."

Evidently, she was frustrated, if the act of well-to-do innkeeper was being disregarded completely. Sadly for her, however, so was I.

"I don't give a damn if you want it or not! Either find someone who doesn't sound like a tortured cat, or leave the silence to its peace! If I hear something that agonizing again, I'll cut out the bastard's vocal cords and be done with it!" I snarled, and then, not waiting for her response, whirled back into my room and slammed the door shut with a satisfying sense of finality.

"_As if you could do better!_" The muffled retort came from behind the thin wood.

My eye twitched.

I went back out, my bare feet ghosting over the cold floorboards, my leathers creaking subtly.

"You're damn right I could." I hissed at the infuriating woman, coming face to face with her. Her eyes narrowed further. I noticed they were a very dark amber, not unlike those of the hawk she resembled. I wondered, belatedly, if such an intense shade was common to Nords, or if she was another human breed entirely.

"Oh? Then please, show us. Consider it a _request_." She spat back at me. My lips curled back from my teeth, the ugly snarl visible in my bulbous reflection in Delphine's eyes.

_Oh, I'll show you, you insufferable, arrogant, masquerading bitch. You think you can fool me? You can't. And you certainly won't best me now._

I rocked back on my heels, away from Delphine, getting some space. I relaxed my tense shoulders and took a deep breath, conjuring up in my mind the old, apathetic calm of such tiresome performances.

A Dunmeri song wouldn't do here, but I realized, a little late, that the only one of Skyrim's songs I hadn't effectively blocked out whenever I was subjected to them in an inn was the one Gerdur had been lulling Chestnut with last night. Thinking spitefully that the gods were mocking me, I closed my eyes, sending my thoughts back to the proud, rebellious tune and the ice-blooded woman and the cause she so extolled in the night.

"Ahh, haa, ahh, haah, ahh…Ahh, haah, ahh, haa, ahhhh…" My lips fell wide around the sounds, freeing a voice I had left to rot a long time gone. I grounded myself, inhaling again.

"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone…" I sang softly, lowly, with all the reverence and weight I'd seen in Gerdur's features. It sounded different in my Dunmeri tones, richer and nobler. "For the Age of Oppression is now nearly done…We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own…with our blood and our steel we will take back our home…"

An image came before my mind's eye. A strong, lithe figure, clad in dark armor, bloody tattoos streaking boldly over his face, a face curved in a smile so full of love and pride.

_Father…_

"All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King!" The respect, the faith, in my tone was no farce, although not for the man in the song sung. "In your great honor we drink and we sing! We're the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives! And when Sovngarde beckons every one of us dies…But this land is ours, and we'll see it wiped clean, of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams…"

_Father…_

"All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King! In your great honor we drink and we sing! We're the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives! And when Sovngarde beckons every one of us dies…" I hesitated a second, and then added, "We drink to our youth…to the days come and gone…For the Age of Oppression…is now nearly done…" I finished, my voice fading away in a haunting, hopeful echo.

It wasn't the exact song, but I'd wanted to hear the lines again. To say them for myself. It might have been hidden in a damned rebel's song, sung in a petty challenge only to two idiotic merchants, but all the same. I wanted to declare it: I would be free.

When I opened my eyes, Delphine and Orgnar were staring at me with the most surprise I'd seen on a Nord's stony countenance yet. I felt no sense of triumph, however. Singing the song and saying such things for myself had left little room for else.

There was a creak, and it occurred to me that there was one more person in the room than there'd been when I stood in the doorway of the inn, her eyes fixed on me There was a certain triumph in her expression, the slightest smile on her lips and a faint victory in the height of her brow. Her gaze met mine, and I swore I saw a ruthless, vicious, delighted twinkle.

_That…conniving…bitch!_

"Shadows and _damna_—" I half-spat the curse, not even bothering to finish as frustration and something close to embarrassed fury flushed through me. With a furious huff, I spun on my heel and darted back to my room, flinging the door shut for the third time in yet another fit of rage.

* * *

><p>It took me an hour of sorting potions, picking through gemstones and wolf pelts and various bits of rubbish, and packing all my things neatly away, organized and categorized, for me to calm down sufficiently; but at the very least, the time was well spent.<p>

Securing the last of the buckles on my armor—I'd taken it off to mend the holes and tears Mirmulnir had made as best I could—I stretched my arms above my head and bent back. The heat and tingly tightness was rewarded with a dull pop as I arched my back, and I straightened up with a relieved sigh. Sitting hunched over for so long really put too many cricks in the body…

Rolling my shoulders, I picked up my pack, enjoying the considerably lighter load, and slipped the straps over my arms. Reaching for the much heavier bundle of things I'd be discarding, I bore it with a grunt and made for the door.

Although my original predictions hadn't included a stop at the Riverwood Trader, the extra time the fiasco in the inn had taken had brought my departure to after its opening hour. So, instead of stashing the things I wouldn't be taking at Gerdur's, I took them to Lucan and sold it all. Irritatingly, the man had only five hundred septims on him, and so I was left with less than I liked for the trade; but still, any money was good money.

My purse heavier and my pack lighter, I made my way quietly to Gerdur's and slipped into the side yard. The little shelter normally given to their bull was now Chestnut's residence, and it was there I found her sleeping on her side. Her leg was neatly wrapped with pristine bandages, and the swelling from the night seemed to have gone down. She snorted softly in her sleep, the burst of air half-lifting some strands of hay by her nostrils.

I took a breath, sniffling the littlest bit, and then smiled. Reaching down, I lightly drew my fingers through her dark mane. She snorted again, stirring slightly. I stilled, not wanting her to wake. If those bright, big eyes looked at me again, this would be that much more bittersweet

"Shhh…" I breathed. Thinking swiftly, I continued stroking her, and began a quiet refrain. It had, after all, lulled her before. "We drink to our youth…to the days come and gone…For the Age of Oppression…is now nearly done… Shhh girl…shhh…"

She let out a deep sigh, straw lifting on the air, and relaxed once more. I smiled a bit, twisting a few strands of hair as the sun crept a little higher in the east. The door of the house creaked to my left, and I closed my eyes, knowing it was time to be gone.

"Blessings to you, brave beauty. May you have every happiness." I murmured, and then pulled my hand back and stood. "Goodbye, my friend."

When I turned and walked past the door, it wasn't Gerdur standing there as I had expected, or even her husband, but their son—Frodnar, she'd called him. I hadn't actually seen the boy before, and stopped, studying him. He had pale blonde hair and dark eyes, a round, whitish face, and wide shoulders. He was a miniature troll in his own right. The boy watched me, looking somewhat sleepy but not bedraggled, as if he'd already been up awhile. Considering the tougher lifestyle, he and all his family probably rose very early to begin work. Maybe he was sent to tend the animals before breakfast.

As I stared at the boy, he stared right back. His babyish—but still definitely trollish—face scrunched slightly in mischievous curiosity, and he tilted his head, his short, sandy hair curling around his little ears.

"That's your horse, right? What happened to it? Did you get in a fight with bandits? Or some soldiers? My Uncle Ralof said you were one of his comrades. Have you killed many Imperials? Can I see your sword?" The litany of questions spewed forth so rapidly I could hardly process one before the other. I narrowed my eyes at him, but one resisted, twitching in its usual, irritated tick. I settled for crossing my arms over my chest and leveling him a black look instead.

"Boy, you need to scurry on back to your mother before I strap you to the mill's waterwheel." I said warningly, annoyance clear in my tone. He scrunched his nose at me.

"You're new here, so I'll go easy on ya, but talk to me like that and you'll get on my bad side. I'll prank ya. And not a little. A lot." The boy retorted in childish challenge, and I snorted out a laugh. Annoying, and bound for a ditch somewhere…but a spunky little ingrate.

"Boy, there are worse things than petty pranks. You can puff up your little chest at me when you've lived another fifty years and killed a few hundred men." I said patronizingly, watching amusedly as he grew red in the face.

"So what if you've done all that? I nailed a septim to Lucan's doorstep, glued a cow's udders shut, and put bugs in the stew at the inn. I'll get you too!"

At the image of Lucan Valerius stooped over and struggling for hours to pull a gold piece from the ground, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. It was loud in the early morning quiet, and I reigned myself in quickly to a wicked smirk and a snorted chuckle.

"You're not bad, kid." I told the boy. Remembering one of his earlier requests, I untied one of the iron daggers I hadn't been able to sell at the Trader from my belt and tossed it to him. He yelped, fumbling to get a hold of the weapon without it slipping from its leather sheath. His pale gray eyes widened wonderingly.

_Already doing better on those reflexes than the troll. Might be hope for you yet, little-troll. Huh…Troll, she-troll, and little-troll. Does the husband count…? Hmm…He can be the troll-in-law; or no, the he-troll…yea that'll do…_

"I…can have this?" He sounded genuinely delighted, his brattish grimace lighting up.

"Yea, kid. Just don't tell your mother where you got it. And take care of my horse _really well_, you hear? Her name's Chestnut."

"Y-yea! I will! Thanks!" He smiled hugely, and I decided it was now far past time to be gone. Children and joy in general—when unrelated to things like money and misfortune, anyways—made my skin crawl if I was in contact for more than a handful of minutes; like with various species of insects, or a whole array of poisonous plants…

"See ya, kid." I muttered, waving my hand at him in dismissal as I turned to go.

"See ya around! I'll take care of Chestnut real good, promise!" He called.

I allowed myself another small smile, content with the thought that my mare would be looked after. As I rounded the corner and came back onto the North road though, I returned my expression to a neutral one, passing the smith as he emerged from his home with perfect indifference.

Still though, my steps felt sure as I strode purposefully out of the hamlet and up the road. All distractions from foolhardy Jarls to wounded horses to questionable innkeepers were pushed aside at last. There was, for the moment, only the twisting, sloping path before me and my goal high in the distant peaks' heights.

The last few days had been chaos and madness and questions in a nonsensical, inane, chimerical deluge; but now the downpour had finally subsided, and I had a light in the distance to run for.

I paused before the cluster of Standing Stones, looking deep into the horizon at the enormous, snow-covered mountain that speared the sky like a shining pike. There, before me, my answers waited.

I walked on.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Crack chapter is cracktastic. I loved writing this one, haha. Had lots of laughs. Hope you guyd enjoyed it too. ;)

Next up, High Hrothgar! (Sort of) :D


	11. Update

Hey my lovely, wonderful readers. I know it's been a long time (you may notice a pattern in my absences) and some of you were probably wondering whatever happened to this story.

Well, sadly, this isn't a new chapter, as you can see. **BUT **it's **not **one of those really crappy updates to tell you I've dumped this story (as if that would ever be possible).

This is me informing you all that I'm going to be _rehashing these first ten chapters_, as I'm (painfully insecure) dissatisfied with them when I read them over again. That being said, I'm going to be leaving the story as it is now up until I'm done with that and have some new material for all you dears.

Now, just a couple things. I plan on leaving most of the original content; the majority of the changes will be editing, slight rephrasing, or correcting a few details. I also plan on breaking up the chapters into smaller, more manageable ones, since I usually had good stopping points in the middle of them.

Of course, though, I'm at your whim. So a few questions:

1) Do you guys prefer shorter- or medium-length chapters, or longer chapters?

2) Would you want to see more perspectives from other characters, like that one time with Ralof?

3) Do you want to keep things at their current pace, traveling details included, or would you prefer a jump from Point A to Point B between chapters?

Alright, that's about it. I hope to have the story up and nice and shiny soon; and I think rewriting it will be good for getting back into Ser's groove. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and generally putting up with me. Hope to see you soon! *buys everyone a round and cheers*

-Watashi (And Ser, of course)


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